Death of a Star 🌑

Let’s talk about the winter that felt like spring, when cold loosened its hold before it could cling, and something quiet shifted beneath the surface as nights drew close not to burden but to listen, holding space for sparks drifting through my thoughts.

Inside my ribs, a universe stirred awake,
its constellations stretching toward their own beginnings. In that vastness, light touched the fractures, I never realised had been waiting for repair.

A star rose there, bright and unafraid,
warming hollows long left untouched by wonder. Even as it began to fall, it fell beautifully, a blaze surrendering itself to the dark, without losing its dignity or its glow.

In the hush that followed its final flare,
the universe exhaled softly through my bones, a steady pulse rising where its rhythm once lived, and where that radiance faded, something gentler remained.

Butterflies belong to daylight, bold, expected, admired, but too easily named, too quickly assumed. Fireflies, though, are companions of the dark, their small lanterns glowing where light is hardest to find.

So I choose the fireflies, quiet, persistent, unwavering, Carrying the stubborn memory of the star’s light.