The Sky Forgot to Sleep

The sky forgot to sleep last night.

It kept tossing stars from one cloud to another,

restless as a poet with ink-stained hands,

scratching verses into the fabric of midnight.

Moonlight spilled like secrets down the spine of rooftops,

and the wind whispered lullabies it couldn’t remember the words to.

Even the trees stood still,

afraid to rustle too loudly in the silence.

I watched the constellations rearrange themselves

like puzzle pieces that no longer fit—

Orion turned his belt into a noose of questions,

and Cassiopeia folded her throne into a raft of regret.

Something was unsettled in the air—

not quite storm, not quite peace.

The darkness blinked open, wide-eyed and sleepless,

echoing the hum inside my own chest.

Maybe the sky mirrored us,

the way mirrors reflect without understanding,

and maybe insomnia is a form of translation—

between what we dream and what we survive.

I didn’t sleep either.

I counted shadows instead of sheep,

traced the outline of thoughts I never dared to speak aloud,

and made promises to the dawn

that I already knew I’d break.

By morning, the sky yawned in streaks of gold,

as if nothing had happened—

but I saw the bags beneath the clouds’ eyes.

We had both been awake too long.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi