Out Here, We Are Stars

Out here, where time forgets its name and distance wears no shoes, a single atom dreams of being seen. A nebula breathes in slow creation— a phosphorous wound stitched by light, spilling stars like secrets never meant for mouths. What lilt remains in the voice of the void? Even silence has shape here— serpentine, a slither of ancient radiation wrapping the bones of galaxies, like a mother tucking in what she cannot keep. We call it space, but it’s more: a cascade of almosts, of might-have-beens and never-weres, falling endlessly through a gravity that remembers everything but forgives nothing. The lunar dust knows— how soft it is to vanish, how even your footprints can outlive your breath. And Earth, blue with burden, floats like a question we’ve stopped trying to answer— spinning myths into maths, naming fire with numbers, hoping to out-code the ache. There is a myriad of ways to be alone. But here, in this tender, terrible expanse, we are together in our unknowing. And maybe that is enough to make us stars.