The sky has not cried,

but the world beneath it has.

In quiet rooms,

where silence speaks louder than sorrow,

in the folds of a letter no one was meant to read,

in eyes that look straight ahead—

but see everything they’ve lost.

Some days ache more than others,

like wounds that unstitch by pulling its thread.

We learn to move with the pain,

carrying it gently,

as if it were something sacred.

Memories slip through like cold water,

ungraspable,

yet soaked into the skin.

And still,

we press flowers into books that will never be opened,

we light candles for voices that won’t return.

And this…

this is how bleeding leads to beauty.