The Silent Pulse Between Stars

A galaxy
with billions of stars
stood beside Earth—
not to threaten,
but to support.
A galaxy
NASA couldn’t see
because it was born
from a silence
deeper than the prayers
of the universe.

It hums
between the stars,
on a frequency
only the heart can hear.

You knew—
it wasn’t loneliness.
It was invitation.

Sacred Surprise

Galaxies of light dust
were drawn toward each other
by a sacred will—
not in violence,
but in a slow, blossoming embrace.

An endless galaxy poured into me—
and I was drawn
into formless innocence
into the nothingness that shone
like the first light after the cosmic dark,
into the fertile void where time dissolves.

I became the surface
of every ocean,
the hollow inside each leaf,
the hidden depth of trees,
the unseen geometry of clouds.

I descended
like mist falling upon the earth,
scattering myself among a thousand shapes—
until reality bloomed like a lemon tree,
reviving a forgotten house
in its silent ruins.

Exiled Galaxy

I was waiting
for a bottle of carrot juice
in a long, ordinary line.

Suddenly—
the street disappeared.
Shops, signs,
the world I knew
folded inward.

I saw her.
She looked like me—
only softer,
woven from stillness and halos of rose light,
hovering in the sky before me.

Reality tapped my shoulder,
placed the bottle in my hand.
I got into the car.
She moved beside me,
sliding along the glass.

Sometimes she spiraled above rooftops,
sometimes she stitched herself
from the fabric of clouds.

She had no words—
only a resonance
that stirred memory from its sleep.
And I remembered:

A black hole,
in full command of gravity,
pulled me inward,
then flung me
through a tiny, furred opening
into another world—
a world of dimensions and digits,
where language was everywhere,
but no sound ever arrived.

Until Lumina returned—
in a body made of light and remembering.
She entered my solitude
and unfolded the past
from behind time.

I,
an exiled galaxy,
with billions of radiant hearts
beating for Earth,
decoder of nature’s veiled wisdom,
bearer of flowers born in snow,
raised in silence,

for that sacred pause—
when someone stands still
and whispers in their heart:

Always,
to remain

a branch of blossom
despite the thorn.