The Starlight Retreat

The stars know something about leaving gracefully. They don't flicker or protest— just dim themselves degree by degree as the horizon swallows their light, as if darkness were simply another kind of kindness.

I watch them go, these ancient fire-witnesses, their names dissolving on my tongue before I can learn them properly. The sky shifts from black to violet, from violet to that bruised blue that lives only in the margins of morning.

Everything beautiful is temporary. The birds haven't noticed yet— they still sleep in their small geometries, dreaming of branches and song, unaware that the night that sheltered them is already becoming memory.

And I remain here, caught between— neither fully asleep nor awake, holding the fading light the way you hold a secret that tastes like goodbye.