When Stars Learn to Speak:

The night unstitches its velvet,

spilling constellations like loose thread—

each flicker a vowel swallowed by the dark.

You, barefoot astronomer, gather them

in cupped palms, whispering stay, stay

to the pulse of dying meteors.

Morning is a rumor here, where shadows

knead themselves into origami cranes.

You plant their paper wings in cracked soil,

water them with unsent letters,

wait for the day they’ll rise

carrying the weight of all your almosts.

Somewhere, a clock forgets its hands.

Time pools at your ankles—

a river of half-finished sonnets.

You wade through, pluck syllables

from the current, string them

into a necklace of question marks.

The world insists on its endings:

wilted roses, burnt toast, last trains.

But you—

you are the gardener of what if,

tending to verbs that refuse to conjugate,

naming the unnamed ache between hello

and the silence that follows.

When dawn finally cracks its yolk over the horizon,

you press your ear to the sky.

Listen—

the stars are humming your name

in a language only the brave remember,

a melody that tastes like beginning.