Some mornings I wake up and the sky is heavy— not the kind of gray that promises rain, but the kind that presses down, like the weight of stories I haven’t told, or words I’ve swallowed whole.
It’s not a storm, exactly, but a quiet thunder inside my chest, a slow, persistent hum that makes everything else feel distant, like I’m watching the world through a window smudged with tears.
Sometimes I forget what it feels like to breathe without carrying this weight, but then I remember— there are small things: a crack in the sidewalk, a smile from a stranger, the way sunlight sneaks in between curtains and whispers, maybe tomorrow.
And even in the darkness, I know the sky isn’t forever heavy— it’s just waiting for the wind to carry it away.
