You could never explain her voice. Thin notes on staff, burrowing in between the spaces and fragments of broken serenades. Overspill from gutters slipping into the cracks of pavement, finding refuge under the pebbles of stormy anger, of passion. She found herself in the stickiest of situations and sang her way out, melodies scrambling over each other in fits of turbulence, of midnight creaking. She was an alto sometimes, the lower octave of her voice bubbling like hot springs, the higher octave of her voice could only be explained if you've ever stood atop a mountain, the wind in the roots of your hair, billowing the sides of your shirt. You'd feel a chill, like an ice cube sprinting down the ridges of your spine, the small of your back. She wouldn't let up, filling your lungs with her sugared notes, climbing up your throat to sprinkle into sheer applause. Yet some days she'll be dismal and gloomy, her voice cringing as it hits the air around her, the voices within clawing to be ripped from their chains. You could rim the grooves of her broken wings with the balms of your fingers, if you were careful enough to keep from breaking them. But if you linger, her voice will become knives, and she will slit your arms while you try to understand her, try to fix her. For her voice is lost, unknown, and is a secret.
