The observatory sits above the town
like a thought no one finished.

At night the dome opens
on its slow hinge—
a pupil widening
toward distance.

We lie on the concrete platform
still holding the day’s heat.
The telescope turns in small corrections,
metal listening.

Inside the lens, a star elongates—
not bursting,
just slipping
toward a color we cannot keep.

Light thins
as it travels.

By the time it reaches us
it has already survived
what we call
now.

You say something about distance—
wavelength, recession—
but the word away lingers
longer than the math.

The star stains the eyepiece
with a red that isn’t flame
but stretch.

Below, the town gathers itself
into porch-light constellations.

You reach for my hand
as if to steady the ground
from moving under us.
For a moment everything seems aligned—
lens, sky, pulse.

Then the star slips further
into itself.

Morning will come
without announcement.

The dome will close.

The light will keep arriving—
older each time
than we remember
sending it.