It is proven that we are all made of stars.
Not just one but multiple.
We were once tiny little particles that grew under pressure,
And shined bright for millions of years.
That was until we were released into the universe,
For a new life to be led.
I believe the people we meet in this world,
Those we have an instant connection with,
Share a star with us.
We recognize them because we once spent millions of years with them.
Growing.
Changing.
Developing in the same pressure.
I believe that our soulmates are made up of the exact same stars as us.
The same elemental composition.
It is the reason we are so comfortable.
Why they feel like home.
It is the home we knew for millions of years.
The twin flame of our soul.

If I could hand you this ache,
I think you’d hold it gently -
not to fix it,
but to understand where it’s been.

There’s something about you ~
the way your words soften the sharpness in me,
like you’ve met all my ghosts
and chose to stay anyway.

When you speak,
it feels like silence is being seen.
Like I don’t have to earn softness
or shrink my storm to be held.

I don’t know what this is:
this thread between us,
quiet but impossible to ignore.
I just know
I don’t want to pull away from it.

There’s a kind of home in your presence;
not a place I move into,
but a place I remember
from long before I knew
what it meant to be known.

So if I seem hesitant,
or too full of questions.
know it’s not doubt,
it’s depth.

I don’t want a half-story with you.
I want every page
even the ones we haven’t written yet.

And maybe that’s what this is:
not a confession,
not a request;
just a quiet truth
finally making its way to light.

we met in a bar —
by accident —
i was with a friend.
we matched on tinder
a while ago.
yet, word by word,
you quoted my bio
back to me.
as if you didn’t care.
so casually.

we talked bad dates,
cats, the types we were into,
living sitch in oxford,
housemate gossip,
then silently judged some people.

my friend left, eventually.
we decided to head home.
you were parked at the station,
and i lived off botley road.

you didn’t mind the company.
i didn’t know you.
but i knew of you.
barely.
a friend of a friend.

then i found myself accepting
the lift you offered.

we were almost by my house
when you asked about my plans.

maybe i’d finish
a half-drunk bottle, i said,
with nothing else in mind.

you glanced over,
said you had one at home
you were dying to open.
extremely cheap.
probably vile.
saved for special occasions,
and improvised nights.

the spark was effortless.
as we got to my driveway,
you turned us around.

the ridiculous treasure
you had saved
was worse than we feared,
yet we drank it
until we forgot the taste.

the selfies you made us take
were the silliest kind:
posing with fake glasses,
bandanas,
and that cursed, stick-on moustache.

yours (bandana, not moustache),
wrapped around my neck,
pulled me close.
then you kissed me.

it caught me off guard —
the difference.
you didn’t need me to stay.
i didn’t hear you beg.
with the bottle between us,
we settled in your bed,
discussed programming,
reflection,
the act of meditation —
such an unexpected night to have.

as you drove me home,
you put cheesy pop songs on,
belting out taylor swift.
i noticed the comic strips
glued on the interior —
it was harley quinn.

i still remember all of it.

mostly the goodbye kiss
you carefully asked for
as i opened the door.
and the way our lips brushed
was almost like a dream,
because it was the first time
a kiss,
exchanged with a stranger,
didn’t feel cheap.

we weren’t really strangers
by the end of the night.

(at least not as much
as we currently are.)

The cosmos breathes through your silken thread,
A shimmer stitched where starlight treads,
Each breath you take, a hush, a spark,
A song begun within the dark.

You walk, a lantern born of flame,
Yet hold no boast, nor cry your name;
The hush of galaxies leans in,
To hear your soul’s light stir the wind.

You are not small, though stars are grand,
You are the pulse in the sky’s own hand.
A symphony that dares to rise,
From silence, into sacred skies.

Let morning crown your brow with fire,
And let your gaze the heavens inspire,
For God in shadow, dust, and hue,
Finds voice and rhythm, here, in you.

The empty square, rained

clean, at home we lay down and --


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