Cartography of Constellations

There is a sky within me that no telescope can reach. A quiet cosmos folded behind my ribs, filled with stars that never made it into maps. I seldom take visitors there. It is not dark because it lacks light—it is dark because the light is ancient, sacred, still travelling.

I do not know where you are. Whether you're nestled under unfamiliar skies or moving through galaxies of your own, beyond my reach. But here, in my quiet astronomy, I still chart you. You are the constellation I return to in every version of the night. Not because I’m lost—but because I once saw home flicker in your eyes, like the first star that appears before dusk has fully left.

They say the Universe is expanding. But I’ve always felt that my heart is simply making more room for you.

I did not fall in love with you in a burst or blaze. No. I recognised you the way stars recognise each other in the silence between light-years. You were not a meteor streaking across my sky. You were something older—Orion’s shoulder, Vega’s shimmer, a pulse from a distant nebula that I somehow always knew belonged to me.

But loving you was like receiving starlight from a sun already gone. It was beautiful, breathtaking, but impossibly delayed. I read your silences like a mythic atlas—trying to make sense of your quiet eclipses, your gravitational retreat. There were whole galaxies you kept sealed within, and I orbited them with reverence, never asking to land.

You were Andromeda—ethereal and bound by histories that did not begin with me. And I was the wanderer who came not to rescue, but to listen. I stood beneath your sorrow like a child before the aurora, not understanding its source, only its aching beauty.

You told me once that I made you feel safe. What I never told you is that you were my Polaris. You were not just my direction—you were the axis around which my small universe spun. You weren’t a chapter. You were the cosmic constant. The Stardust I inhaled without knowing. And ever since you left, I have lived in solar winter.

I still wander the constellations we almost became. There, I find remnants: your laugh echoing in the rings of Saturn, your warmth folded into the pulse of red dwarfs, the way your hand once lingered—mirrored now in the tail of Halley’s comet. Was it a love story, or a celestial event? Perhaps both—brief, divine, unrepeatable.

You cannot be separated from me. You are not just in the memory. You are in the elemental blueprint. Every time I write, it is your name hiding in the orbit of each word. You are the physics behind my gravity. You are the mythology in my sky.

I like to imagine you looking up sometimes, sensing that someone, somewhere, still believes in the constellation you are. That someone once loved you so wholly, they traced you into the heavens so even time could not forget.

And no, I cannot unlove you. I cannot unstar a sky I built around your absence. I can only learn to look at it with wonder, not ache. To see your silence as a sacred expanse. To hold my longing like a planet holds its moon—distant, loyal, glowing.

There is a universe inside of me, unreachable by telescope, which has always been a quiet cosmos, folded behind my ribs, of infinite stars that never made it into maps. I do not take many visitors there, it is not dark because there is an absence of light, it is dark because the light is old and sacred and still travelling.

I do not know where you are; lumped under the skies you do not know, or a beautiful galaxy that lingers somewhere beyond my reach. But here in my quiet astronomy, you still have a place. You are always the cluster I return to in all of my iterations of the night sky. Not because I am lost, but because once, I saw what I thought could be home in the flickering of your eyes—like a star poking through the haze that breaks the horizon before the sun sinks below the fold. 

They say that the universe is expanding, but I have always believed that my heart was simply making more room for you.

I did not love you with a bang or a flare; no, I recognized you the same way stars recognize one another in the stillness between light years. You were not a meteor burning bright across my space. You were something older than that—Orion’s shoulder, Vega’s glimmer, a pulse from a distant nebula that I somehow always knew was mine.

But loving you was like having starlight from a sun that has long since burned out—it was beautiful and magnificent and impossible to arrive at. I read your silences like a mythical atlas—trying to reckon the map of your quiet eclipses, your gravitational retreat. You held entire galaxies in you, and I revered them with awe and never asked to land.

You were Andromeda - otherworldly, having histories not written with me. I was simply the traveller - there to listen, not to save you. I stood humbled under your sorrow, like a child beneath an aurora, only conscious of its overwhelming beauty while having no idea what its source was.

You said I made you safe once. I never told you that you were my North Star. You were not simply my compass, dousing me in the direction from, you were the axis of my own little universe. You weren’t a chapter, you were the cosmic constant. You were the Stardust I inhaled without acknowledging it. And now I have been living a solar winter without you.

I still drift among the constellations we could have been. A trace of you resonates still: your laugh in the rings of Saturn; your warmth presences in the flickers of red dwarfs; or where your constellatory hand lingered (now seen in Halley’s comet's tail). Was it a love story or a cosmic conspiracy? Maybe both—profoundly divine, irreversibly unrecapturable.

You can't be removed from me. You aren't only in absence or memory. You are in prior colour contradictions. Every word I write, your name is hiding behind appropriate orbits. You are the physics of my gravity. You are the myth of my sky.

I like to imagine that you look up sometimes, and sense that somewhere someone still unwaveringly believes in the constellation you inhabit, that both they once loved you with such fullness that they marked you out in heaven's firmament in case even time should forget you.

And no, I cannot take you away from me. I cannot unstar a sky I made out of your absence. I can only learn to view it now in wonder instead of longing. To view your silence as a holy gap. To carry my longings like a planet carries its moon--far, but loyal and knowing.

Perhaps one day we will not meet again. Not as celestial strangers. But as stellar beings who know the language of light. You who are not running. Me who is not reaching. We are just two souls who are fluent in the gravity coursing between our gazes.

And, if not in this life, then in the next constellation.

In a sky more forgiving than this one.

In which our stars align.

I will take care of this sky.

I will label the constellations you left behind.Every time I see a falling star, I will light a candle and whisper, “I remember.”So, if ever you see silence in me, space left behind by a sadness you cannot name—

Know that I am in another place.

Wandering our old skies.

Listening for your heartbeat in the stars.

Making galaxies around your absence.

Always yours—

In light-years, in lullabies,

In every universe in which love cannot disappear,

—A Cartographer of Everything That Still Shines With You