above traffic and deadlines,

above the ache of unanswered questions,

above the gravity of almosts—

cirrus clouds begin their quiet work.

I notice them because my phone is dead

and the bus is late,

because there is nothing else to scroll through,

because the day has stalled long enough

for me to look up instead of forward.

They don’t arrive with drama.

No thunder announces them.

No shadow rushes ahead like a warning.

They appear the way hope often does:

thin, unsure,

easy to overlook if you aren’t already looking,

if you expect comfort to come with instructions

or proof.

Cirrus lives where the air is honest.

Up there, nothing pretends to be heavier than it is.

There is no performance of weight,

no obligation to stay grounded.

Light travels freely,

and the sky learns how to breathe again,

slowly, carefully,

as if it, too, has been holding something in

for too long.

These clouds know that not everything meant to help

has to arrive loudly.

Some things exist only to soften the edges

of what’s already bright,

to take the sharpness out of clarity,

to remind the world that gentleness

is not the same thing as weakness.

They stretch themselves into feathers,

into brushstrokes,

into unfinished thoughts written in white,

as if the sky has begun drafting a letter

it doesn’t need to send.

The sky practices kindness through them,

testing how much gentleness the world can hold

without breaking,

without asking for more than it can give back.

Cirrus doesn’t block the sun.

It teaches it restraint—

how to glow without burning,

how to stay present without overwhelming.

Through them, the light becomes forgiving,

filtered just enough to feel safe,

as if even the universe understands

that some days need warmth, not heat,

that survival and comfort

are not always separate goals.

Look closely and you’ll see it:

the silver lining isn’t hidden inside the cloud.

It is the cloud.

Hope isn’t buried under darkness—

it floats above it,

patient, waiting for your eyes

to remember where to look,

waiting for you to believe that height

does not always mean distance.

Cirrus clouds are the first to arrive

before weather decides to be cruel.

They are proof that clarity exists

before confusion sets in,

that calm is possible even when change is coming.

They don’t promise the storm won’t happen.

That would be too easy.

They promise that beauty existed

before it did—

and will exist again after,

even if it looks different,

even if you have to relearn how to see it.

There is something brave

about being so temporary.

Cirrus never stays long enough

to be taken for granted,

never gives the sky time

to grow careless with it.

It teaches us this small, vital lesson:

you don’t have to last forever

to matter deeply.

You just have to show up

at the right moment

and leave something lighter behind,

even if you never see who needed it.

These clouds understand the art of passing through.

They don’t cling to the sky.

They don’t argue with the wind.

They don’t ask to be remembered.

And yet—

hours later, you’ll still be thinking about them,

trying to name the feeling they left in your chest,

that pause you didn’t know you needed.

That quiet relief.

That sense that maybe things

aren’t as heavy as they looked from the ground,

that perspective can change

without anything else having to move.

Cirrus is for the days

when optimism feels too ambitious a word.

For the moments when “everything will be okay”

sounds like a lie you don’t have the energy to believe.

Cirrus doesn’t ask for belief.

It doesn’t demand faith or certainty.

It only asks you to notice,

to participate in the smallest act of hope:

attention.

Notice how even the highest places

make room for softness.

Notice how light learns new ways to survive,

how it adapts without complaint.

Notice how the sky never stops

finding reasons to be beautiful,

even when no one is watching,

even when the ground is too busy

to look up.

Somewhere above you right now,

cirrus is writing another quiet reminder

across the blue.

It says:

hope doesn’t have to shout.

It doesn’t have to prove itself.

It doesn’t have to stay.

Sometimes, the silver lining

is simply the fact that beauty passes through at all—

and that you were here,

alive and looking up,

just in time to see it.

I have begged to

And I earned the prize

I recognize your face now

As my head puts the plotpoints together

I come to realize not fantasize

Are we oil and water?

During a dreary night

when you came hidden

Showed up to the confession booth

I saw it all

And I realize that it’s not questions anymore

Maybe I should change your contact name

Be honest with my world

Yet you have every right to mine

Because I revealed that I have skeletons in my closet too

But yet you admitted this is present

I admitted it was my past

I shone the light

I see wings

White wings that were burned

Not by your own actions

I realize where you have been taught this

How you were taught to fly as a dragon

To sieze and take and take and just take

Control wrapped around your finger

Delighting yourself in that power

You like that power, do you?

You wish to show me it

But you step back

I show you mine

You can only hear songbirds

This is what good power can be

Hope rebirths

Just like in similar nights

It is born again

You lit that fire again

You deny holding the lighter

Yet you dont even see it

Any of it

I said that this would make me fall

But yet hope is back again

You’ll be back eventually

But what is being back

If it’ll never feel the same as what it used to be

It’s easy to say

It’ll feel better eventually

But what is being better

If the process if more painful than anything else

It’s easy to say

That’s it’s what needs to be done

But what is being necessary

If it costs me a whole year of my life

It’s easy to say

It’s just 2 simple surgeries

But what does it mean to make a fix

If it changes who I am; both mentally and physically

on a rented camping ground

at a rusted metal table

sticky with years of rain and dirt

and chipmunks and July 4th parties.

We don’t think you’re doing good enough

my mind says, across the wet, gray matter

it whispers to the veins and tongue

and peritoneum and eyes

Do not be noticed.

The noxious thoughts ride on horses, fast

up the synapses and away

on and on, with the electricity sliding

the snap from cell to cell,

pondering on itself.

I say perhaps my aunts and cousins don’t

think I’m fat and stupid, and I can stop

thinking so much to make each person

love me and tearing into myself

when the people push it back.

it’s best to pack the small things first

expect boxes to split and bags to spill over

the espresso cup you bought in Salzburg even though you don’t drink espresso

expect boxes to split and bags to spill over

the one-meal rice cooker mom bought you in fall (I got one, too)

the espresso cup you bought in Salzburg even though you don’t drink espresso

the dishtowel with lemons and a ketchup stain

the one-meal rice cooker mom bought you in fall (I got one, too)

take down the pink American flag with Drew Starkey’s face

the dishtowel with lemons and a ketchup stain

the bull-shaped fridge magnet you got from a football game

take down the pink American flag with Drew Starkey’s face

you only own three plates, so I wouldn’t worry about kitchen space

the bull-shaped fridge magnet you got from a football game

fold up the round folding chair you stole from Grandma last year

you only own three plates, so I wouldn’t worry about kitchen space

take your toothbrush from the shared bathroom you sent me a million selfies from

fold up the round folding chair you stole from Grandma last year

remove your soaps from the shower a day before so they can dry

take your toothbrush from the shared bathroom you sent me a million selfies from

pack away the vanilla candle your RA wouldn’t let you burn

remove your soaps from the shower a day before so they can dry

remove the dozen posters of red-cap mushrooms from your walls

pack away the vanilla candle your RA wouldn’t let you burn

strip your raised mattress, leave it barren and white in the corner

remove the dozen posters of red-cap mushrooms from your walls

pull the suitcases from beneath your bedframe, you’re going to need them

strip your raised mattress, leave it barren and white in the corner

you can pile blankets anywhere, but sheets go in a bag

pull the suitcases from beneath your bedframe, you’re going to need them

the sweaters and tank tops and boots don’t need to be folded

you can pile blankets anywhere, but sheets go in a bag

start taking cardboard boxes down—four floors to the car and back

the sweaters and tank tops and boots don’t need to be folded

it’s only a two-hour drive back to my house and then you can unpack

start taking cardboard boxes down—four floors to the car and back

expect boxes to split and bags to spill over

it’s only a two-hour drive back to my house and then you can unpack

first of all, little sister, make sure you have a house to move into

Hum in the woods for two or three hours

And scare a flock of birds with your screams.

Carve your grandmother’s name into an oak tree.

Hum in the woods for two or three hours

And free the flies trapped in spiderwebs.

Carve your grandmother’s name into an oak tree.

Lie in the grass and let bugs drink your blood.

And free the flies trapped in spiderwebs.

Prick the soles of your feet on dry grass.

Lie in the grass and let bugs drink your blood.

Flex your hands in the sunshine.

Prick the soles of your feet on dry grass.

Get sick by staying out too long in the rain,

Flex your hands in the sunshine.

Throw rocks in the stream, but never skip them,

Get sick by staying out too long in the rain,

And scare a flock of birds with your screams.

Throw rocks in the stream, but never skip them,

Always have a little dirt on your hands.

I’m steel,

I’m eager,

I try and eat, biting

into the fabric of your jacket’s

shoulder, there are no calories

here, eager for you, I

cannot eat,

never a mother that fed me,

nor a father to show me how.

Starve, trying to eat empty love,

starving to walk,

show me how,

show me how,

show me how

Even when you turn away, I’m still there beside you.

You’re in my DNA, I can’t ever escape your pull.

No matter how hard I try, you run through me.

Your voice lingers inside my head, I hear it everywhere.

Your touch is a shadow I can’t stop wanting tonight.

The further apart we are, the closer I feel you.

Like a star I can’t reach, but I keep looking.

Every heartbeat reminds me of you, racing in silence.

Every thought drags me back to where you already are.

I try to let go, but it’s impossible for me.

You’re running through my veins, and I don’t want release.

Even distance can’t undo what’s been carved into me.

The night wraps me in your presence, I can’t breathe.

I’ll keep you far, but never fully let you go.

You’re everything I can’t touch, and I don’t want it.

The sky holds our secrets, and I’m always watching.

Every star whispers your name, pulling me closer again.

Even when the world turns its back, I won’t leave.

You’re part of me, and I’ll keep you that way.

She was red from brow to chin, her eyes a stark flare.

A droplet leaked from eye to cheek; the starry eyes blurred.

I’m on a high horse; a single hair doesn’t tickle in my nose.

Her foot turned, and the stars fell off their glistening.

My foot moved too, turning back off her trail. “I was right".”

Thump—my ears drummed, I turned, and my eyes drained.

2:

She was limp, and red was gushing out. “Her blood is draining.”

My eyes stranded, I tore my shirt; the crimson wound flared.

Thud-thud, my heart beat—my fingers dialed “I wasn’t right.”

Red sirens rang, my feet stumbled, and my vision blurred.

My hand grazed my eyes, trickling, and my fingers glistened.

My horse’s legs broke, and all the hairs rotted off my nose.

3:

Ambulance: Eyes gazed at her stony face, once pressing her nose,

Now a lore, trampled hard—her face and hands now drained

I pressed my hands together; the blood on my hands glistened.

Her images tangled, her giggling against the morning’s flare.

Her face sizzled—the sky gushed out crimson blurring.

Pressing my hands hard together, eyes closed, “Please be alright.”

4:

Her image appeared, and she spoke, “You loved me, right?”
Her arms—carmined,”Embrace me; you liked pressing my nose?”

My pupils pricked, feet backed, and her face was sizzling—blurred.

My face trickled cold sweat, and my tongue was saliva-drained.

Her fingers crackled, and her blood-wine-red eyes flared.

All was painted red, her eyes full of stars—glistening.

5:

The sky stained dark orange, cracking lines spread and glisten.

Ears string, my love—you loved—you loved—you loved me, right?

“Sir,” a voice said. My pupils dilated from the morning’s flare.

I stepped in the room—I plunged, “Wake up, pinch my nose.”

Her body hardened, cold; the beauty now paled and drained.

I squeezed her hand. “Wake up; without you all is blurry—blur.”

6:

My eyes turn to the window; the high horse is broken—lif'e’s blur.

The face shone back in the pane, and my eyes glistened.

My brows are all pale; “she’s gone—aged me.” fluids are drained.

My hair’;s as tangled as the webbed mind, “Everything’s alright.”

My fingers lifted slowly, grazing lightly as they pinched my nose.

My heart bumped—bump, a gushing blood —it flared

Envoi:

My vision blurred; a thousand images of her glistened.

Thud, I stumbled, heart bumped. “Now it’s very right.”

The morning’s flare grazed my drained body and my nose.

____________________________________________________________________________

It was October the second when you gave me the first rose. Every morning it arrived in your tender hold, at my door. I would take it with a smile, a simple thanks in response. Since that day I’ve grown a garden of roses from your touch.

A new rose is a new day. A new day is happiness with you.

As I touch yesterday’s, I remember the walk to campus. That morning when you kissed my lips and smiled, telling me how you’d never part from my side and how you hoped we’d be together forever, or, at least until the stars exploded. So then we could witness, together, a beautiful final show.

Turning to a long-since dried blush pink rose, I wonder, if that day, as we picked apples from your neighbor’s front yard before Sunday mass, you ever saw this fated day coming. Every minute since I heard the news, I wonder if we ever got a hidden clue. Was it blatantly in our faces? Did we ignore it on purpose? Why did I let myself ignore the gray hue behind your eyes that day? The shade that foretold our future.

This morning, I woke up with a feeling of dread in the space in my chest where my heart once lay, and, since the first day, you have slowly filled with parts of you. It scared me to think you had taken all those parts away, ripped them from me, and taken them back. I skipped my first class this morning, as I waited for you to arrive at my door. Every text message I sent. Every call I tried to put through. They were desperate cries for a new rose, a new day with you. For happiness beside you. The happiness you would always give me and no longer can.

With you died my love, died my happiness, and all the roses, now scattered across my bedroom floor.

I write to beg you. I beg from the corner of my room, where you once hid from my parents late at night, between the boxes of supplies that were soon to become party favors for my cousin’s Quinceañera. The one you promised to attend with me with our arms locked, walking side by side. The one where you promised to help me choose my dress and help me with my makeup, where you had already promised we would buy my cousin her Quinceañera ring.

As I sit in this corner and beg, while our history in roses sits, I wonder if a rose will ever come my way again. Maybe not in this life, maybe, when heaven lets us meet again. I hope when I wake up tomorrow, I get to see your good morning text, letting me know you are at my front door, ready to give me a new rose. A new day. I beg this issome foul joke and beg you to knock at my door. Please, knock on my door.