It begins with a sky that forgets
how to be blue.
Clouds swell like unspoken words,
thick with the ache of holding too much.

Rain does not ask permission.
It falls,
not to cleanse,
but to remind you that even the sky
breaks sometimes.

You walk through it,
coat clinging like regret,
shoes filling with the slow drip of memory.
Every step sinks a little.

There is no thunder,
only the quiet exhaustion of
everything trying to stay upright.
The trees don't flinch anymore.
They've learned to bend,
to sway,
to survive what doesn't stop.

You carry the rain like a second skin,
invisible to others,
heavy to you.
They talk of weather;
you live.