By Tasmiya Ghauri
The sky stretches, vivid—hauntingly bare,
As I sit on this rooftop, stripped of air,
Seeking solace from tempests within,
Where silence and memory softly begin.
Once, these heavens brimmed with fire,
A sprawl of stars, a city’s choir,
When first I came with open eyes—
Now dimmed beneath more jaded skies.
A hush between the midnight and the dawn,
The breeze stirs what time has drawn—
Ghosts of laughter, fragments of flame,
Love once named, now none remain.
Eyes closed, I cast my life in thread,
Each memory stitched where stars have fled.
They say a star dies by fire inside—
A burst of light where fractures hide.
So, too, do we hold stars in our core,
Blazing through love, through want, through war.
Until, beneath weight no bond can bear,
They vanish, leaving silence there.
Tonight, I count just twelve remain,
Each a relic of joy or buried pain.
I wonder how many will greet me once more,
When next I climb this rooftop floor.
But the sky, unbound by human grief,
Veins with light beyond belief.
A fragile whisper, soft and drawn—
Even in loss, there comes a dawn.