Constellations Made of Regret

Some nights,

the sky feels heavier

than it should.

Not because of the darkness,

but because of all the light

we never reached.

I trace the constellations

that never made it into charts —

the almost-choices,

the words withheld,

the quiet roads

I left unwalked.

There —

a star for the letter

I folded but never sent.

There —

one for the apology

I rehearsed,

then buried beneath pride.

A brighter one marks

the moment I stayed

when I should have left,

and another

for when I left

without knowing how to stay.

The sky keeps score.

Every unfinished tenderness

burns slowly above me,

a map drawn by hesitation.

Still, it is beautiful.

Even regret can shimmer

when given distance —

can draw its lines

gently

from heart to memory

and back again.

Tonight,

I look up

and let those stars arrange themselves

into a story

only I can read:

A reminder

that even what we fail to do

becomes part

of our brightness.

And that every regret

is simply a star

waiting

to be named.