Does the Sky Tell Stories?

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Does the sky tell stories, or do we just read our own hearts into the blue? Do I love you, so I write your name, or do I fall for you as the ink bleeds through? I could go days without a single word, yet feel we’ve been conversing the entire time— for every hour spent in quiet absence is spent rewriting you in rhyme.

I have romanticized so many things, gilded the edges of ordinary pain. Or did I finally process what I couldn’t then, clearing the wreckage in the rain? I can hardly tell the difference now between the healing and the art, between the truth of what occurred and the inventions of the heart.

Is this obsession, or was I just asleep before? Is this how living is supposed to feel? Or am I only fooling myself again, inventing warmth to make the winter real? I do not know.

Have I loved you all this while, a quiet current running underneath? And did I only just discover it, pulling the sword from its forgotten sheath? Or have I fallen newly, fiercely now, tumbling into something strange and deep? A mystery, unanswered, a secret that the pages get to keep.

But answers matter very little now. The truth is older than the sky alive— you were never truly absent, anyway. You have always been inside my archive.

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