The sky is the colour of well-worn bedsheets,
greyed and softened by countless washes,
a damp washing line kind of grey,
the kind that clings to the air
before a drizzle starts,
or after it ends,
and the world is still dripping.

Not the bright, hopeful white
of freshly laundered linen,
snapping in a summer breeze.
No, this is the grey of a Monday morning,
of a forgotten promise,
of a lukewarm cup of tea.
It's the grey that seeps into your bones,

It settles in your shoulders.
makes you want to pull the covers
back over your head
and pretend the day
hasn't quite begun.
But even this grey,
this damp, heavy grey,
has its own kind of beauty.

A quiet strength.
a muted dignity.
It's the colour of waiting,
of slow, steady growth,
of the earth breathing
beneath a blanket of clouds.

My heart floats in the hollow between beats,
a weightless thing, neither here nor gone,
left in the purgatory of almosts and maybes.

Time drips slow, like sap from a wounded tree,
every second stretched thin,
every breath a whisper of what could be.

Hope dangles, fragile and frayed,
a spider’s thread trembling in the wind,
unsure if it will hold or snap
under the weight of a longing unspoken.

I do not bleed, I do not weep—
I simply linger,
caught in this timeless pause,
my heart in suspended animation,
waiting for the whisper of her touch,
the warmth of her voice,
to pull me back to life.