I see the world

through storm-colored eyes—

blue and gray,

never still,

never simple.

An air sign by birth,

but I’ve always felt

more like a gust—

sweeping in,

stirring things up,

then vanishing

before I’m caught.

I am both breath

and hurricane,

a whisper one minute,

a reckoning the next.

They watch my gaze,

call it cold,

but they don’t see

the whirlpool behind it—

the questions,

the ache,

the fight to stay untangled

from everyone else’s gravity.

I carry lightness

like a shield,

but my bones are heavy

with everything

I’ll never say.

Blue-eyed air sign,

wild and wired,

floating,

but always looking

for a place to land.

And when I do—

God help the ground.