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 â
a constellation I canât touch,
burning bright in someone elseâs sky.
I trace your light with tired eyes,
pretending the distance doesnât
tear me apart in quiet ways.
I talk to the void.
To nothing.
To maybe.
Sending out signals youâll never catch,
because youâre too far,
too busy,
too brilliant
to notice the star
adrift in your orbit,
flickering,
dimming,
turning quiet.
And I tell myself â
itâs fine.
Itâs fine.
Iâll stay here.
Iâll care for you from a safe distance,
where my gravity canât pull you down,
where my voice wonât break the silence
youâve learned to live in.
But I wonder,
every time the stars shift â
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 doesnât see the fire.
Here,
pretending the cold
doesnât freeze my bones.
And maybe one day,
Iâll stop waiting,
stop orbiting,
stop letting my heart swing around your gravity.
Maybe one day
Iâll drift beyond your reach,
and youâll look up
and wonder
where the light went,
how the brightest star in your sky
became nothing but
silence.
But for now,
Iâm still here,
circling your universe,
hoping youâll turn,
just once,
and see me.