Count the quiet between the stars, one, two, three— the night keeps perfect time with me. A silver wing against my hand, a little pulse I understand. Dew gathers light along the field, tiny mirrors half concealed. I lie where midnight cools the ground, listening past the human sound. There is a language in the dark, written small in every spark. I know the mathematics of the sky— but not why beauty makes me wonder why. And still, for all the things I calculate, I never learned to measure this: A fragile thing that chooses not to fly away the moment that I lift my fingertips. Come share the quiet for a while, there's room beside me for your smile. I hold so still you'd never guess how much restraint is tenderness. Steel remembers every strain, but moonlight makes it new again. Perhaps the heart is only what we call the place no blueprint can explain. A sudden warmth, a gentle weight, a wish that asks for nothing but to remain. If dawn should find an empty hand, I won't pretend I don't understand. Beautiful things are not betrayed because they leave when morning wakes. So go, if going calls your name. I will not close my fingers. I will remember how your wings caught fire without ever having burned. To touch and not possess, to guard and not confine— one little living light turning a moment divine. Stay for a little while, bright as the first star waking slowly. Rest where the whole world grows gentle and mild, and let the silence know me. I have crossed through iron hours, I have learned what strength can cost, but beneath this impossible moon nothing tender has been lost. Stay for a little while— or rise into the blue. Either way, this quiet miracle will travel on with you. For a little while— for a little while— No cage, no claim, no need to hold. Just silver wings and midnight cold. For a little while— I knew the sky could fit inside my hand. Count the quiet between the stars, one, two, three— The night keeps perfect time. And so do I.
