Smallness
"Sometimes I look at the stars and think about how small we are"
Sometimes I stare into the midnight sky
and feel the hush of two half-forgotten figures
still humming in the high silence.
Not saints, not stories,
just a pair pressed permanently
into the velvet above,
their outlines threaded tight
by whatever ancient ache refuses to release them.
They weren’t crowned.
They weren’t chosen.
They were simply caught,
caught in the act of loving,
caught so fiercely the gods themself
grew greedy and gathered them,
making them forever the epitome
of being dear.
And I think of us,
how small we are,
small like the secret seam
between your breath and mine
where something bright begins to bloom.
But there’s a largeness curled inside our littleness,
a quiet magnitude,
a minor-key miracle
that ripples through my ribs.
I imagine some sky-stitched seamstress,
fiddle with needles of night,
collecting the residue of our tenderness.
Your laugh that lifts me,
my pulse that stutters toward you,
the way our wanting weaves through every word,
and lifting it upward, upward,
as if longing itself were a torch on fire
asking to be held by the heavens.
Not to make myths of us
but to memorize us.
To mark the place where two brief bodies
made something bright enough
to bother eternity.
And so when I lift my gaze
and feel how small we are,
how easily we could be missed,
how quickly we could be swallowed,
I also hear this soft insistence.
Even the faintest love,
the fragile, foolish kind
that flickers in young chests
and stumbles through sentences,
can carve its own trembling constellation
in the indifferent dark.
And maybe,
if the sky is listening,
it will preserve the shape of our glow,
let it linger like the echo of a kiss
too stubborn to fade,
because even the cosmos, cold as it is,
knows the warmth of two hands reaching
is worth remembering.
Oh hello this one made me teary 🥹