Thoughts.

A Thousand Silent Ways

I hear you, soft whispers. The wind carries you to me, and your owner is sadder still. He trusts the breeze and silence to soften his heart whispering, "Perhaps someone will hear me if I speak this softly."
And I do.
I did today.
I do every day.
I hear him speak ever so gently that it makes me wonder if the words have ever left those cracked lips that move in pain. I hear his heartbeat and it is steady still, but I wonder when it will start pumping in such sweet rhythm as I felt before. I see his tears through the images the breeze sends me. I have a way with the breeze. I can touch it. Feel it. I try to send him and others what I see and hear. I'm not sure if it is possible, though. Do all people have a way with the breeze?
So I close my eyes and try to speak to others in a thousand silent ways. Perhaps some messages get through to them.
But you, soft whispers, I don't think I can forget you. You died the moment I heard you but who knows if your owner will conjure others like yourself.
And maybe he does conjure them every single day but the breeze forgets me from time to time and we're tasting the bittersweet melancholy of the brokenhearted.
I then speak in shattered poetry and am left with my thoughts that contain a thousand shades of color and lighting. The pictures are so vivid that I hope the breeze recognizes them and sends them through you. I know some succeed getting through because I know he thought of them too.
There is one problem, I'm afraid and it is very simple one at that.
One day he will forget to speak to the breeze because his heart will cure in time. And when time cures his heart, the pictures will be broken and the whispers will lessen.
Just like I had predicted last time, it will come again, only in a lesser form. I am very good at predicting, I'm afraid. Perhaps that is why it is difficult for me to cry.
When he uttered, 'Remember me. I will remember you," he had no idea what he was saying like a child who loved a song because of its tune, allowing it to cross his lips over and over again. Innocently, beautifully and without understanding.
So, soft whispers, we've still got time before you die out completely. Perhaps it'll take a month or two, but who on Earth is counting?