# Small Constellations

I keep my life in pocket-sized moments—
a receipt with a coffee ring halo,
a key that knows the shape of home,
a song that finds me in the wrong aisle.

The day is loud with ordinary thunder:
notifications, buses, small talk rain.
Still, you can feel it if you stand still—
how light keeps trying to become a blessing.

Somewhere, a window catches late sun
and turns a sink full of dishes into gold.
Somewhere, a stranger holds a door
like the world is worth being gentle to.

And when the night finally unhooks its coat,
I look up at what I can’t control—
the patient glitter of distance,
the quiet math of maybes.

I’m learning this:
we don’t need a sky full of miracles,
only enough bright points
to spell our names back to us.