Beneath the velvet quiescence of our celestial abode, ink spills in galactic epochs, crafting tales from the very dust that weaves our skin. Here lies a tapestry of forgotten passions, the romance inscribed by comets trailing luminescent kisses across the night sky, their ephemeral love for a world marred by oblivion.
The ancients whispered to the stars, their voices but echoes in cosmic corridors—a plea, perhaps, or a lullaby to the nebulae serenading their own births. Each page of this celestial manuscript breathes with the fragrance of stardust, each paragraph a constellation yearning for recognition.
And what of the stars that died upon our watches, their flames extinguished in the silence of time, leaving behind ghosts of light to linger like memories of a dream unfulfilled? Their necropography is a tender elegy, a sonnet sung in the language of supernovae, written across the universe’s parchment with the quills of dark matter. The Eternal Speaks with an ink that never dries.
We, the scattered stardust, caught within gravity's embrace, pause in our spinning dance to write our verses between the lines of the firmament. Heartbeats of Constellations remind us that love, like the universe, is ever-expanding, echoing endlessly in the void.