She is My Constellation I trace her name on the fogged window, letters curling like the tips of her fingers when they linger too long on my wrist. She walks, and the world bends slightly, a slow exhale of awe and surrender. Her voice— a cathedral of echoes, a song I hum without knowing. She leaves a half-drunk coffee on my table, stirring sugar with the same care she once touched my lips. I count the freckles on her back like stars, map constellations between them, name them after the nights we never slept. I love her like soft rebellions, like breaking curfews, like catching fireflies and setting them free— only to chase them again. --- She is My Ashes I erase her name from the window, watch the condensation swallow the letters. She is the static between stations, the flickering streetlight that never fully dies. I walk, and the world stiffens, as if holding its breath in warning. Her voice— a needle dragged across vinyl, a siren too close to home. She leaves a half-smoked cigarette on my table, ashes curling like the lies she whispered into my mouth. I count the scars she left behind, map her absence between my ribs, name them after the nights I bled. I hate her like burnt tongues, like bitten cheeks, like mirrors that remember too much. I take my fireflies, set them loose, and never look back.