A rabbit drifts past,

no, a ship,

no, maybe it’s me.

Arms stretching into the sky,

fingertips brushing at clouds

before they vanish into whispers.

A jagged mountain cracks open my chest,

and courage leaks out in rivulets

I cannot name,

but feel in my knees,

in the way my hair wants to dance

like flames in a windstorm.

A whale swims overhead, slow and deliberate,

and suddenly I am the ocean,

waves folding me into longing,

into laughter,

into the ache of wanting everything at once.

Sometimes they are just cotton,

soft and absurd,

and I feel relief in my bones

because not every shape must carry meaning.

But mostly,

they speak anyway.

Shapes curling, twisting, fracturing.

I twist with them,

break with them,

curl into their strange, relentless poetry,

until I can’t tell where the sky ends

and I begin.

Maybe that’s the point:

we are all clouds,

all shapes,

all feeling what the world decides to be for us,

and still somehow,

choosing how to float.