A Song the Stars Forgot to Sing

There’s a hush between constellations

where music once was meant to bloom—

a cradle of notes left unsung,

folded quietly into the velvet dark.

I used to listen for it each night,

head tilted to the sky like a prayer

offered to gods I wasn’t sure were listening.

The stars—silent tonight.

Even Orion, bold and bruised,

has no melody in his belt.

Just the hush of forgotten ballads

and wishes that never made the leap.

Once, we stood in a field of quiet,

your hand in mine,

and I swore I could hear

the universe humming—

a lullaby beneath the wind,

sweet and aching as first love.

You said stars don’t sing out loud;

they echo in us.

That maybe the silence

is just another kind of song.

But when you left,

the night forgot its rhythm.

The crickets stopped mid-verse,

the moon wept behind a curtain of fog,

and every galaxy turned its face

just a little away from Earth.

I try to hum what I remember—

the notes of your laugh,

the tempo of your breath in sleep,

the crescendo of goodbye

rising in your throat.

But all I can summon

is the ache between refrains,

the hollow between words,

the pause in a lyric

where your voice used to be.

Now, I sit with silence—

not as punishment,

but as pilgrimage.

Maybe, somewhere in that vast,

unwritten sheet of night,

the stars still hold your song

for the moment I’m brave enough

to sing it back into the dark.