Writers 
We look up at the velvet night,
Where ancient stars ignite,
Tracing lines across the deep,
A map that wandering sailors keep.
They say the heavens join and bind,
The scattered pieces left behind,
Connecting dots in silver thread,
High above our mortal head.
Yet some are born to drift away,
Beyond the reach of dawn and day.
A constellation set apart,
Mapped not by space, but in the heart.
Though light years stretch between our shores,
And silence guards the heavy doors,
The spark remains, distinct and cold,
A story waiting to be told.
We are the stars that never meet,
Walking down a separate street.
You burn in blue across the west,
While I in amber find my rest.
The gravity of time and space
Has locked us in a strict embrace,
Where closeness is a memory,
And distance is our destiny.
No telescope can bridge the span,
Or mend the break where we began.
We shine alone in empty air,
Aware that the other's there.
A cosmic geometry of grief,
Where finding solace is belief
That even parted by the dark,
We share the same primordial spark.
So let the night winds softly blow,
And carry all we used to know.
Though distant worlds divide our skies,
Reflected in each other's eyes,
We trace the lines that keep us free—
A broken, beautiful galaxy.
