Always still here

Depression is not always thunder.
Sometimes it is dust,
settling on familiar things,
soft enough that no one notices,
how heavy it becomes.
It moves the sun a little farther away,
dims colors without erasing them,
turns laughter into an echo,
that arrives late,
and leaves early.
Days continue,
that is the strange part.
The clock does not pause,
for the ache behind the ribs,
and the world keeps asking,
for answers when your voice feels thin.
But even here,
breath still happens.
The heart keeps its quiet rhythm,
persistent, stubborn,
refusing to forget its work.
And sometimes,
not always, but sometimes,
a crack appears.
Light slips in, unannounced,
not to fix everything,
just to remind you,
that this darkness is not the whole story.
You are not broken.
You are weathered.
And weather changes.