Cyclones

It smells of salt and regret. It's as if someone left a window open by the sea, and the wind is blowing in, full of unspoken "I'm sorrys." It seems like everything has been experienced already, but a warm trace still trembles inside - like sand that can't be washed out of your hair after a storm. There are no loud dramas here, just a quiet "what if..." – belated, almost tender. In each verse, there's an attempt to blame fate on the weather, because it's easier than admitting the storm was within. And somewhere between the rusty floor, the evening bells, and the morning tides, a simple thot resonates: not everyone swept away by the wave drowns - some just didn't dare to swim back.