Between two suns

She sits
where the sky has torn,
fingers tight around her knees
as if holding herself together.

Behind her
a blue star cooling in its own shadow,
seas salted
with the insomnia of years,
and the taste of unsaid words.

The blue star hums
like an old lullaby
sung by ghosts who stopped expecting dawn.

It knows her weight,
how long she carried silence
like a stone in her mouth.
How she once walked its dim corridors
like a candle
afraid
of its own fire.

The blue world whispers
in the language of gravity:
Stay.

The air is familiar here.
The dark has rules:
Do not ask.
Do not refuse.
Do not need.

Pain, at least,
keeps its promises.
And still
something in her stirs.

Her heart startles suddenly,
a small wing
testing the narrow cage of her ribs.

Fear climbs quietly
the ladder of her bones.

What if the door of light
is only another silence?

What if hope
is the edge pretending to be sky?

She lifts her eyes.

Before her
another sun breathes:
Gold.
The new sun
smells like rain
on a road
she has never walked.

A sun
that burns
like the first word ever spoken.

Its fire does not ask permission.
Its light spills wildly
over distances her fear has never measured.

A wild star
that refuses the language of cages.
The sun opens
its bright hands for her.

It says nothing.
It only burns.

And somewhere beneath
the cracked cathedral of her past
something ancient stirs
not courage,
but the refusal
to remain buried.

Tonight she sits
between the two suns.

The old one knows her.
The other
is learning
her name.

And still
she trembles.

But tonight
fear
is only
one of the stars.