Clouds . . . or not clouds

Clouds, yes, clouds but they’re not clouds, they’re just fragments of sky drifting away

Why does the color blue feel heavy sometimes? A weight like a whisper but too loud—

What was that smell? Yesterday’s coffee still lingers, or is it regret? Not sure—does it matter?

The window’s open, I didn’t open it, who did? Or maybe it was always open but I forgot to notice

There’s the bird again, flapping, free, always free, I think I envy it but why envy when wings don’t make sense here

Feet planted but they’re restless, tap-tap-tap like they know something I don’t—maybe they remember running

Running, where was I running? Not sure, the pavement was hot but I didn’t feel it until now

Do you ever feel a thought before it happens, like an itch just behind the eyes, impossible to scratch?

The sun is too bright or is it just my eyelids protesting the light, like curtains drawn against a world too much, too fast, too slow

Time slips, seconds tumble like marbles on a floor, scattered, lost, rolling into corners you’ll never find again

There’s a song, I hum it but forget the tune, maybe it wasn’t a song, maybe it was silence dressed up in melody

Words are strange, they twist, slip between my fingers like water but sometimes they burn, yes burn, sharp and jagged

I think I was supposed to remember something, wasn’t I? Or maybe it was just the idea of remembering that matters

Now the clouds again, still not clouds—are they memories, hopes, or just things I never asked for but keep anyway?