Before the Break

The sky lowers its voice. Leaves turn their pale undersides up— a thousand palms waiting to catch what falls.

The air thickens like held breath, that moment when the world decides whether to speak or stay silent. Insects scatter to shadow. Even the birdsong fractures.

Your skin prickles with static, with the weight of gathering dark. Everything feels borrowed— this light, this warmth, this perfect aching suspense before breaking.

The horizon cracks its knuckles. Nothing moves. Everything moves. The first drop falls like a question nobody wanted to ask.