I weave my stars with patient hands,
spinning silver from silence,
braiding night into something holy.
Each star remembers me—
how I bent, how I endured,
how I learned the language of light
without ever being taught.
They rise in slow procession,
lanterns for the parts of me
that once wandered lost.
Some burn soft as lullabies,
others blaze like crowns,
all of them loyal
to the sky I claimed as my own.
I am not made of ashes,
as they once believed—
I am made of constellations,
and the dark
has never been able
to keep them.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 8:05 AM UTC
I weave my stars with patient hands,
spinning silver from silence,
braiding night into something holy.
Each star remembers me—
how I bent, how I endured,
how I learned the language of light
without ever being taught.
They rise in slow procession,
lanterns for the parts of me
that once wandered lost.
Some burn soft as lullabies,
others blaze like crowns,
all of them loyal
to the sky I claimed as my own.
I am not made of ashes,
as they once believed—
I am made of constellations,
and the dark
has never been able
to keep them.
