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There are some things that are best left unsaid. They are to be felt, involuntarily, in the silences between two hearbeats, in the spaces between words. That is how I have experienced it, the unspoken pain of my unfulfilled dreams. They are too proud to wail. They will remain quiet. They will remain unquenched, spent embers with a tiny silent flame inside them, that will continue to burn at late hours of the night when the heart is the truest to itself. These shards of broken dreams, they are sharp around the edges, but colourful none the less. Sometimes I play with them over my veins as I wait for dawn. In the sunlight, I hold them against the sky and they diffract and multiply, giving birth to a million small dreams again. I believe them and I live them, fooling myself all the while. But at night, under the stars, there is no pretense. Its just me and the broken pieces again. And a very old kind hearted moon that spreads her milky grace over us. She tells us not to wail. It is not of grace to wail. We obey her in our silences and await the dawn again.