First rain...
Ink bleeding through the cracks of sky,
a poem not yet written,
a kiss not yet given.
The air holds its breath.
Everything aches—
like the soil pulling in the rain,
like my hands reaching
for what is almost,
but not yet, mine.
And still, I reach—
for the promise behind the storm,
for the word that shapes the silence,
for the silence before it becomes music,
for the sky that aches the way I do.
