Monsoon Vigil

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A sudden burst of wind claws the monsoon dark—
rain shatters sleep at 2 a.m.,
drags its nails down the tin roof.
Water stings my cheeks, a cold baptism
as the fan’s breath hums through damp sheets,
carrying the weight of soil and storm.

My bag bloats like a lung beside the bed;
I pull it closer, anchor in the chaos.
The room yawns with shadows,
body begging to sink,
but my skull hums with static—
each raindrop a spark.

I scroll through the glow of borrowed worlds,
pixels dissolving into the ache of night,
until the rain exhales.
Silence swells—now the AC groans
its metallic hymn, frogs croak
their wet-throated psalms.

The air hums with petrichor’s musk,
the fan’s blade carving a chill
that settles like a ghost on my ribs.
Even darkness grows heavy.
I write this down to quiet the charge
of lightning still trapped in my veins—

let the monsoon drink it back.

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