Starcrossed

They drift in the dark like twin-born stars,
bound by a thread no distance mars;
an orbit drawn in ancient fire,
between the pull and the desire.

One blazes bright, a restless sun,
whose flares can scorch but also stun;
the other, cool as silver light,
a moon that waxes into night.

Each turn they make, the space will bend—
a comet’s path toward where they end;
yet just before they touch the flame,
they veer away, still not the same.

Their constellations shift and sway,
align, then fracture, drift away;
but something keeps their skies entwined,
a gravity they can’t unwind.

No map can chart the course they keep,
a tide of stars, awake or asleep;
their hearts still hum the old refrain—
two names carved deep in stellar rain.

They move apart, they wheel around,
the silence vast, the echoes loud;
each knows the other’s blaze, its cost,
yet aches for what was never lost.

And sometimes, when the night turns still,
they meet beyond the highest hill;
their light will kiss, their shadows blend,
before the orbit bends once again.

And so they spin, not free, not bound,
in cosmic dance without a sound;
two souls who burn, yet still remain
starcrossed across the astral plane.