When the Sky Forgot to Hold Back

When the Sky Forgot to Hold Back

The sky cracked open like a tired heart,

Too full to hold its sorrow apart.

And down it came — the monsoon sigh,

Not just on earth, but deep inside.

Each drop a whisper, old and true,

Like grandma’s tales, or morning dew.

It kissed the leaves, it tapped the glass,

A lullaby from seasons past.

I watched it fall, with chai in hand,

Bare feet tucked into soft, cold sand.

And in that hush, so oddly loud,

The rain unstitched my inner cloud.

It spoke of childhood — muddy shoes,

Of paper boats and undone blues.

Of stolen naps while thunder rolled,

Of wet school socks and stories told.

The monsoon isn’t just a phase,

It’s how the sky remembers days.

It cleans the air, it slows the race,

It gives the heart a softer place.

Some run from rain, some dance along,

Some write it into quiet song.

But me—I sit, and let it pour,

Like love returning through the door.

It smells like earth, like something kind,

It clears the noise inside the mind.

No filter, no pretense, no mask—

Just sky and soul, a sacred task.

So when the world feels much too dry,

Look up and wait for weeping sky.

Because sometimes, healing wears a hood,

And walks the streets of your childhood.