silently, the back of a cat

drawn in stardust.

It has no cage, no name,

but in its gait lies a secret:

the memory of all those who left

without a sound.

Its paws tread on constellations,

as if the universe were a carpet

and the galaxies its home.

A puff of smoke follows it,

as if the soul of time

smelled it from afar.

It has eyes that saw comets born

and promises disappear on broken planets.

But it doesn't cry.

Cosmic cats don't cry:

they shine.

And when it crosses your sky,

it's no coincidence.

It's a sign.

That what was lost didn't go away.

It only changed shape

and now it meows among the stars.