Above the roof, a quiet constellation waits
like punctuation the night forgot to use.
I point. You nod. Between us,
the dark becomes a page.
We do not name the stars. Naming would close them.
Above the roof, a quiet constellation waits
like punctuation the night forgot to use.
I point. You nod. Between us,
the dark becomes a page.
We do not name the stars. Naming would close them.