clouds unhook their secret, and the sky begins to cry,
soft bruises of light falling slow—somewhere between hurt and lullaby.
inside, the room breathes with the rhythm; a small drum that knows my name,
and for a moment the ache feels like a language I can finally say.
water writes down everything I try to hide—words melting into streams,
my grief becomes a river and my laughter slips in like bright, quick dreams.
the rain wakes the quiet parts of me, the wild that remembers how to be,
pulling the skin of the world taut until the honest things show free.
puddles hold tiny maps of yesterday—shivering mirrors of streetlamps, faces, time,
and when I jump, the splash is a small rejoicing, a punctuation to the sky’s rhyme.
playing barefoot, I feel alive in the reckless, childish way of someone saved,
water on my tongue, a sudden laugh—these are the small rebellions I have craved.
there is comfort in the wet—like being wrapped in something that understands,
that knows sorrow wears the same coat as joy and folds them both into its hands.
the rain is patient, it repeats what the heart forgets: breathe, let go, return,
and leaves behind a silver hush where old, soft memories quietly burn.
each drop is a letter from the clouds, edged with salt and honest light,
it reads the hidden weather of the soul and gives permission to feel tonight.
nature leans close and says: this is your skin, your truth, your unafraid,
and the smell of wet soil stitches me back to the world I sometimes trade.
so I stand at the window, trembling between grief and a small, fierce grace,
watching rain turn every cracked place into a luminous, forgiving space.
it hurts and it heals in the same slow, steady fall—tears that make me whole,
and when the sky finally quiets, I carry the damp memory like a warm, lasting coal.