Silver threads across the night,
stitched in silence, stitched in spite
of all I lost and all I knew,
the stars remain, too far, too true.
They do not break, they do not bend,
they do not grieve, they do not mend.
Yet here I stand, a thing undone,
reflecting shards beneath the sun.
Each constellation knows my name -
or did, before I changed the frame.
Who was I when I could smile?
Just a child… just a while.
Now I reach for the moon’s pale thread,
a distant call I’ve come to dread.
It beckons me to lose, to rise,
but I am not what it implies.
If someone finds me in this night,
and sees through pieces into light,
then maybe stars can fall, and still
a broken gem might choose to heal