The Quiet Machinery

A clockwork of stardust grinds, silent in the vacuum's breath, spinning threads of amber light across the vast, forgotten dark.

Moons pulled on invisible tethers, swaying in their borrowed gleam, they do not ask for hands to wind them, nor for eyes to watch them fall.

It is a slow and breathless waltz, galaxies folding into ribbons, leaving only the faint hum of gravity humming in the spaces between.