Born from a Comet's Prayer

There's a flutter in me made of butterfly wings-

It hums when the stars lean close.  

I sip moonlight from chipped teacups,  

Trade secrets with unicorns who forget they're not gods.

Every time I walk barefoot through clover,  

Mother Earth remembers my name.  

They say I was born from an exploding nova  

That formed ice draped in pink and lavender skies and lullabies.

They say I was born from a comet's prayer,  

Draped in teal skies and lullabies,  

My laugh stitched with stardust,  

My sorrow tucked in a bottle to be thrown back to the sea  

On days when I forget I am magic.

And although I've never seen my reflection clearly  

The fairies say I carry the shape of dawn  

And the eyes of someone who's danced with a storm and lived to tell it gently.

My mother told me mermaids taught me how to sing,  

Goats gave me ambition,  

And my father-my father taught me to dance in the galaxies.

So, if you ever find yourself lost between raindrops and radio static,  

Listen for the echo of a girl who sips from chipped teacups,  

Sings with mermaids,  

And dances in galaxies taught by her father's footsteps.

She'll remind you-

Magic isn't something you find.  

It's something you remember.

And now they are not gone—

They are lifted.

My mother wears her laughter like wings,

light threaded through her hands,

moving freely through the places

she once only dreamed of.

My father dances where gravity loosens,

his footsteps written in constellations,

teaching galaxies what it means

to move with joy instead of weight.

When the night is especially quiet,

I feel them pass through me—

a flutter,

a hush,

a remembering—

butterfly wings stirring the dark,

as if the sky itself

is breathing me back into myself.

And I know then:

No one I love has ever left.

They have only changed altitudes.