The day the stars died,

no warning came, no signs at all.

Everything else was the same—

whatever “same” means.

The world was still fighting itself,

and we were still out of time,

as if we ever had any.

I was there when they died,

and there after it happened.

It wasn’t rain but yellow drops,

more like blood than water.

They were killed,

so they bled—

like us.

Nothing felt safe.

But for a moment, it was beautiful.

Maybe just a second or more,

we were the ones living.

The stars had died, not us.

We didn’t need to.

We just needed to dance in their blood,

and be alive.