The night sky is a graveyard of stories.
Each star, a name whispered once
and lost to wind.
Look closer: that faint light near Orion
is a promise someone never kept,
and that one flickering by Cassiopeia
is the smile of a girl
who believed in forever.
We chart these ghosts,
connect their absence into shapes,
call them myth, call them memory,
call them us.
Every constellation is a confession
we forgot to finish.
Even the Milky Way
is just spilled nostalgia,
a cosmic accident
of longing too bright to die.
December, 2025
