Between drags of my cigarette,
I lie back on the concrete
and stare into the night sky.
The stars are beautiful tonight, aren’t they?
Not because the air is clear,
or that the heavens are unusually bright
but because tonight I see their depth,
their quiet elegance,
the way they gather into a canvas
stitched across light-years.
The way they align feels like perfection
a harmony born of distance,
comfort found
in the vastness of the abyss.
I trace the Big Dipper,
Orion too.
Not for anyone else,
but for the stone that cradles my skull,
for the roots beneath the soil,
for the spiders weaving
in the leaves at my side.
I’m almost finished with the cigarette now.
But some part of me wants to stay out here,
just me and the stars
serendipity
in their quiet, endless beauty.
I hope it's true that we're all made of stars
