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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.
Copyright ©
Aaliyah O'Neil
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