So few hear my voice,
too meek and mild -
my words lack echo.
Unworthy of its repetition.
One by one,
they simply roll downward,
tumbling from my lips
toward the hardened ground.
They permeate
like the softest rain,
eagerly engulfed by parched soil.
Or like tears
quietly falling
into heavy, soaked cotton.
Each burst smaller than the last
until it's wrung out.
I will not disturb, I cannot.
But sometimes,
ever so rarely,
some words escape the fall.
And just before they hit the ground,
and splash,
someone will hear.
Shocked - I spill them.
All the words I have,
each sentence I can assemble
And have so desperately longed to utter.
It happens so rarely
that when it does,
I often mistake being heard
for love.