She is a Starry Night

She is a starry night-

the ink of the cosmos poured across the sky,

painted slivers of silver thoughts too bright for day.

She is a quilt of constellations,

each stitched from stories no one else remembers but her.

She is silence,

but never empty; always echoing with light.

She is the space between stars

where mystery lingers and the soul finds room to breathe.

She is not dawn’s promise-

she is the wonder that keeps you believing until it comes.

She is a sky that holds it all-

the gleam, the dark, the ache, the awe.

She is the dust of dying stars

woven into something soft enough to comfort,

and strong enough to endure.

She is the cool hush that calms the restless,

the dark velvet stretched over longing.

She is gravity made gentle,

pulling the world inward

with nothing but presence and glow.

She is a starry night-

not a thing to chase or capture,

but to be still beneath,

and marvel at.

She is a starry night-

and she was the one who learned to look up,

to find light in quiet places,

to trace her way home by the glow of her being.

She never needed the sun to shine-

she simply became the starry sky.