First a hum, and then a whir, and then the ringing. The commotion of daylight will drown it out, but that tinny reverberation worst offends a battered heart sleeping alone.
In silent penumbra
she whispers across the barren.
What do you do if the ink blot doesn't turn into a puddle, and then a lake, and then an ocean? What do you do then?
I can tell she already knows the answer.
You find relief in knowing you will not drown today.