Even stars die,
and we know absolutely nothing about it—
no last words,
no warning breath,
only a quiet shift in the dark
that reaches us centuries too late.

They burn for lifetimes
longer than our languages,
collapse without asking
to be witnessed,
and turn their endings
into light we mistake for presence.

We point and name them,
draw lines between their ghosts,
call them eternal
to comfort ourselves.

But somewhere, right now,
a sun is folding in on itself,
and its death will arrive here
as beauty.

Even stars die,
posing a question
we spend our lives
pretending not to hear.