Do not lace your hollow with constellations,
or gild the void with borrowed suns;
do not summon brightness to the bruise —
let it open like a nebula into space.

Let weight forget its own name,
and pressure unravel into light;
let the narrowness dream itself wider,
as a star dissolves into its own halo.

When the chest tightens, become a horizon;
when the throat closes, become an aurora;
when the body clenches, become infinity —
vast enough that space loses its limitlessness.

Do not interrupt the quiver with purpose,
or translate the raw into reason;
do not dress the ache in urgency —
let it shimmer, like interstellar dust.

Grief can be moonlight, not a sentence,
fear can be carbon, not an inevitability,
longing can be love, not a wound —
if you give it enough dark to breathe.

So expand beyond the sensation,
spill past the skin of feeling,
overflow the architecture of the moment,
as a comet releases its need for direction.

Let awareness become the firmament,
let presence become the deep,
let the ache become a small star
inside a boundless stellar silence.

Do not close the vastness,
or seal the threshold.
or name the opening.
Become the galaxy between worlds.