Light Years

Starlight arrives as a ghost— traveling years to find your eye, the photon's ancient journey ending in the dark cathedral of your pupil.

You hold the past in your retina, each star a letter written before you learned to read, before the world knew your name.

The universe is a museum of light, and you are the only visitor, walking between exhibits of dead suns, touching the glass, trying to warm what cannot be reached.

Time is not a line but a mirror, and we are always looking back at our own reflection, slightly delayed, ever-distant, never quite ourselves.