Stars on the Carpet

The stars, memories descending slow,
wash the voids of silent rooms,
they cover with a breath the day’s cracks,
while the city, weary, fades into drowsy wake.
The table becomes a river of light, the sofa a breath,
every chair holds a memory that will not break,
the dust dances, guided by a silver thread,
and the walls dress themselves in sudden quietness.
When dawn advances, the stellar tide subsides,
a trace of light remains among the empty rooms,
we who were sleeping, now guard that whisper,
and the dark leaves us a face to remember.