You hold a universe—
not in your hands,
but somewhere quieter.
Where silence begins
to speak.

Because you think—& thinking
is a kind of touch.
Because you dream—& dreaming
is a kind of survival.
Because you imagine—& to imagine
is to name the stars
inside yourself.

What lies before you
is not just terrain—
it’s a mirror.
& when you lift it, trembling,
toward heaven,
you find heaven
looking back.

This is how God made you—
not carved, nor chiseled,
but sung into being.
Bold, yes.
Brave, yes.
Fragile in the most
resilient way.

Do not believe
those who call your light
too much, too strange—
their eyes are just
not used to galaxies
up close.

You are precious.
Even in the bruise.
Even in the absence.
Even when your own voice
feels far.

Look: the galaxy, infinite.
But you—
you are the poem
He wrote with breath.
A drama stitched
into starlight.
A scheme of wonder.
A mystery.

You are beloved—
a universe dreaming
itself awake.