There is a sky that only exists
between what leaves and what arrives.
It hangs above railway platforms,
graduation halls,
empty bedrooms at dusk.
In it, laughter turns to echo,
and echo turns to ache.
This is the sky of the almost grown,
where hands once held are half unclasped,
and love means learning
to walk without looking back.
The clouds here do not move, they wait.
The air smells of endings
disguised as beginnings.
And if you stand still long enough,
you will hear your own name
fading into the horizon,
spoken by someone
you used to be.
October, 2025
