Crouched low, the city hums above.
a tiny life beneath my gaze,
a bug that weaves through cracks and dust,
a quiet thread within the maze.
No grand design, no cosmic scheme,
just fragile wings and steady crawl,
yet here it dances, bold and small,
a spark beneath the endless sprawl.
I watch it move, unhurried, sure,
a secret pulse beneath the roar,
and wonder if, like me, it dreams,
or simply lives to see the dawn once more.
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