It does not always come as a storm, With thunder breaking the glass of the day, Or waves that crash against the shore. Sometimes, it is just the weather.
It is a low ceiling of clouds That refuses to lift, A static hum in a room That should be silent.
It is the weight of the blanket That feels like lead, The gravity that pulls a little harder Than it did the day before. It is looking at a sunrise And seeing only the passage of time.
It is the color leaking out of the photograph, Leaving everything sepia and soft, Where joy is a memory of a language You used to speak fluently, But now only stumble through.
It is not always sadness; Sometimes, it is just the absence. The empty chair at the table of your mind, The waiting for a guest Who never arrives, And the long, slow exhale Of a world holding its breath.
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