When the Universe Misplaces a Star

The sky didn’t shudder, no cosmic alarm—

just a flicker, a sigh, then the absence of warmth.

I search the old maps where your light used to be,

but the dark stitches over like deep, hungry seams.

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They say space forgets. That the void always wins.

Yet the planets still tilt where your gravity spins.

I catch myself tracing the shape of your pull,

the ghost of your orbit still tangled in mine.

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Some nights, I swear, there’s a glimmer half-formed—

a laugh in the static, a whisper of storm.

Maybe stars don’t vanish. Maybe they shift,

unseen but still burning, some new kind of gift.

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So I name every shadow where you used to shine,

learn the alphabet of your afterglow lines.

The universe loses, but never erases—

even the gone things leave luminous traces.