The Sky We Once Called Home

The moon spills silver on the hollow ground,

where ghosts of laughter no longer sound.

The air is thick with stories untold,

of love once burning, now silent and cold.

A river of stars runs wild in the night,

whispering secrets in shimmering light.

Do they remember the echoes we made,

or have they faded like ink in the rain?

I walk through the ruins of words left unsaid,

where shadows of memories quietly tread.

The sky we once called home remains,

but nothing below it still knows our names.

Time does not barter, nor does it grieve,

it only unravels what we believe.

Yet, in the wind, I hear you near—

a soft-spun whisper, a fleeting tear.

And though the world may forget our song,

I will hum it low, I will hum it long.

For love does not die where the lost have roamed,

in the sky, we once called home.