The Memory of Stars in the Valleys

The high ridges inhale the horizon and exhale clouds that become sapphire whales moving through the valleys. The air carries the memory of pressure from ages and the sound of distant celestial currents.

Streams rise instead of fall, and moons descend to rest in mountain pools where the reflection of the cosmos trembles in the water. Every pebble remembers it was once a star.

We wander through terrain that reshapes itself for our passing. Thicket's part into paths of faint light, and the sky opens like an ocean of drifting nebulae that brush softly against us.

The world feels awake, vibrating, attentive, as if the earth is only briefly pretending to be solid. The mountain leans toward us, as though it recognizes something it has long been waiting for.

You turn to look at the vastness, and the stars dim to match the light in your eyes.

Everything narrows into stillness that feels like focus rather than absence. The scale of the universe softens until it fits within the space between us.

You place a warmth against my cheek, and the world holds still, like it has finally found the reason for its own brightness.