Echoes in the Margins

Echoes in the Sky

The night hums softly,
as if the air itself remembers.
I feel it in the quiet;
the brush of something unseen,
just beyond the reach of my breath.
The stars are watching.

They flicker not with fire,
but with memories;
each pulse a heartbeat,
from a soul long gone,
still reaching for us.

The stars are not just distant fire;
they are the eyes of those who came before,
their light threaded with spirits,
that wander the sky and lean into the dark.
Each shimmer carries footsteps we cannot hear,
soft as a hand on our shoulder,
telling us we are held,
by every life that once reached for this world.

Sometimes, I think the spirits,
are not here to haunt us at all.
They are guiding;
woven into wind and starlight,
into the shiver that makes us pause,
before turning the next corner in life.

I hear them in the stillness;
a whisper of my name in the rustling leaves,
a soft warmth when I should be cold.
They do not ask to be feared,
Only to be remembered,
for in remembering we grow.

When I look up,
the stars lean closer.
Their light spilling down like hands,
carrying the spirits with them.
Not to pull me away,
but to remind me,
that I am never walking alone.

I lift my arms,
and the night folds around me,
the stars humming through my veins.
I am no longer beneath them,
but within them.

Their light and the spirits' whispers,
becoming the rhythm of my heartbeat.
In that endless sky,
I know every step I take,
is guided, remembered, held.