They burn
millions of miles away.
ancient fires
pinned to velvet black,
soft and distant
yet somehow
deeply ours.

We look up
as if they’re listening,
as if they know our names.
Maybe they do.
Maybe they don’t.
But something about their stillness
makes us speak anyway.

They were there
when we first whispered love,
when we cried into the night,
when we asked the sky
if we’d ever feel whole again.

And they blinked,
silent,
enduring,
not answering,
but not turning away either.

We make wishes
on collapsing light,
hoping the fall
means something.
Maybe it does.
Maybe it’s just our way
of believing
in something beautiful
despite the dark.

Because the stars,
they don’t fix us.
They remind us
we’re small
and that being small
doesn’t mean being unseen.