We are the echoes in the ink, swimming in the cosmos' subconscious pools,
ripples of light weaving stories on our skin.
Do you hear the celestial whispers?
In the quilted night, stars embroider their tales;
each twinkle a forgotten memory, a sigh lost in time.
Wrists brush ether, fingers curl into constellations
tracing patterns of what was and what could have been.
A traveler in dreams wanders amongst these ageless sparks,
collecting the soft breaths of the universe
etching them onto the parchment of the infinite sky.
Listen closely; your name is written
in the dance of the stellar winds,
murmured by the timeless waltz
of night’s gentle breath.