On clear nights when the sky opens its vastness above, I sit on the porch and feel the memory of something that no longer exists. A million tiny light-infused stitches weaving together the fabric of an unreachable sky, each star a phantom touch, a ghostly caress that whispers of things once felt. The night air is thick with the scent of grass, and every rustle speaks in a language forgotten and familiar.
Somewhere below the starry canvas, an old tree stands guard, its shadow a silent witness to the stories unfurling in silence. These stories are not mine, but echoes left behind, gently pressing against the skin of reality. They tell of wanderers, like me, seeking solace among the constellations, tracing invisible paths with phantom fingers.
Each night, the stars map out a new constellation in my mind, a dance of light and shadow that leaves me longing for more. I wonder if they remember, too, the way we used to connect without words, without touch. But here, night's painted sky offers no answers, only the reassurance of presence in absence.
As dawn approaches, the stars fade like old photographs, their brilliance tucked away behind the horizon. Until night returns, I remain here, tethered to a sky that holds my dreams in its quiet, unyielding grasp.