The day holds hope. Not in words, but with a shift— the quiet before a gesture, a drop in pressure you feel behind your eyes.
The clouds stroll in lazily or suddenly, like guests who know they’re late but don’t apologize. They take from me again and again, swallowing whatever light I have to give. Still, I forgive.
I’m getting this odd premonition— not born from patience, but superstition. Somewhere distant, thunderous sounds make me feel safe. I wait for it to crack me open and release everything I once gave.
But nothing happens. No downpour. No fury. Just a sky too heavy to speak, too paralyzed to even lie.
Thoughts?