The Child Who Lives in the Clouds

You don’t always look at me

when I speak.

Your eyes are fixed

on something

just past the window,

where only you

can see it.

A flicker of light.

A story you haven’t told me yet.

A thought too big for words.

You hum while coloring,

soft and constant,

a melody only you know.

You line up your toys,

not chaotically—

but with care,

with symmetry,

with something that feels

like quiet worship.

Others say,

“He’s shy.”

“She’s sensitive.”

“They’re in their own little world.”

And I want to say—

it’s not little.

It’s vast.

It’s a galaxy.

I’ve seen the stars

in your eyes.

You feel everything

like a song played too loudly

in a small room.

You cover your ears

but you never close your heart.

You cry over endings,

even of books we’ve read ten times.

You worry about the moon being lonely

when the sun is out.

And I worry—

about the world

that might ask you to harden.

To explain.

To “grow out of it.”

To fit.

But I won’t.

I won’t ask you to be

less curious,

less careful,

less you.

Because the clouds you live in

carry rain,

yes—

but also

the kind of light

that only dreamers

can name.