Sing Me To Sleep

She picks up the pen. It's brown ink never touches the page. Trainers laced and ready, she turns back to the door. She holds the brush and stares blankly at the canvas. She reads the words that dance on the page, but they refuse to dance in her heart. Nothing. Empty. An unplayed piano dying to be touched. When she strains to listen--really listen--she hears a chord, a single note, a distant tune she swears to have never heard or maybe to have heard time and time again. She needs to hear more--more of a melody that she could sing herself to sleep with. Palms flat and ears pressed against the door, the tear running down her cheek is warm with hope and cold with the impatience of reality. Something bigger, something more has to be out there.