In the final breath of cosmic warmth, I whisper:
"_Have I not spun enough dust to mold worlds?"
"_Echoes, you ask?" "Why do you demand what the silence cradles?"
Are stars truly alive, or are they mirages of existence threaded with memory?
When light dances upon your skin, remember it is the ghost of a sun,
embracing you with its fleeting luminescence.
Each atom in our being, borrowed from a celestial sigh,
forms a story told by the universe to itself.
A prayer uttered harshly, drip by drip in the vacuum,
as I stretch toward the darkened infinite,
unraveling the threads of my cosmic tapestry.
Will there be listeners when the last particles of my flame scatter across voids unformed?
Or is their journey written in the ever-widening silence?