Drifting in Orbit I stand where gravity forgets my name, where silence hums louder than stars, and the dark between your words wraps itself around me like a second skin. I watch you — a constellation I can’t touch, burning bright in someone else’s sky. I trace your light with tired eyes, pretending the distance doesn’t tear me apart in quiet ways. I talk to the void. To nothing. To maybe. Sending out signals you’ll never catch, because you’re too far, too busy, too brilliant to notice the star adrift in your orbit, flickering, dimming, turning quiet. And I tell myself — it’s fine. It’s fine. I’ll stay here. I’ll care for you from a safe distance, where my gravity can’t pull you down, where my voice won’t break the silence you’ve learned to live in. But I wonder, every time the stars shift — if I stopped transmitting, if my light faded completely, would you search the cosmos for me? Would you even notice where the light went, or would the dark just swallow me whole? Because I am quiet, but I am here. Here, burning up on re-entry for someone who doesn’t see the fire. Here, pretending the cold doesn’t freeze my bones. And maybe one day, I’ll stop waiting, stop orbiting, stop letting my heart swing around your gravity. Maybe one day I’ll drift beyond your reach, and you’ll look up and wonder where the light went, how the brightest star in your sky became nothing but silence. But for now, I’m still here, circling your universe, hoping you’ll turn, just once, and see me.
