Stardust Serenade
The telescope, a cold kiss on a clear night,
draws down the distant echoes. Not the brag
of quasars, not the birth screams of a dying star,
but a hum, a susurrus – cosmic dust motes strung on silence.
I used to chase meaning in those lights, a grand design.
Now I hear only the whisper of dissolution,
the gentle insistence of all things returning to their source.
A beautiful, indifferent ending.
The piano, though, that's a different story.
My fingers, clumsy from years and neglect,
still stumble over the keys, seeking a melody
unwritten, yet somehow always there.
No grand concertos, no soaring ambition,
just a quiet conversation with the wood and wire.
A Stardust Serenade, played for no one but the shadows,
a love song to the fading.
Remember her? The laughter that tasted like lemons?
The hand that fit so perfectly in mine?
Even she is gone, returned to the universe's embrace,
another star winking out in the vast night.
Grief, they say, is love persevering.
It's also a damn good reason to write.
A hollow echo of yesterday's happiness,
a lingering fragrance after the rose has withered.
So let the dust fall, let the notes decay.
Let the years carve their canyons into this weary face.
There is beauty in the unraveling, a certain grace
in accepting the inevitable fade.
The Stardust Serenade, it plays on, imperfect, flawed,
a testament to the fleeting, to the ephemeral,
to the simple, stubborn fact that we were here, once,
and that's enough.
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