Orbit

And still—

your voice arrives like a comet uninvited,

burning across the quiet sky of me.

It startles the silence, 

draws out versions of myself

that only existed in your shadow—

half-lit things,

tethered to your gravity even now.

We don't speak.

But my chest tilts, just slightly,

like the earth remembering the moon.

A song plays—and it sounds like you

round and unfinished, like a loop I

never broke, just drifted out of

too slow to be called letting go.

I orbit the ghost of your pull.

I don't move forward, I arc.

I swing wide in the dark, 

brushing past the edge of forgetting—

but never quite.

Some things are not stories.

They're constellations:

bright, cold, far.

But I trace them anyway,

night after night, as if naming them

means they were ever mine.

(To the crush I never saw again, but still find in my viewers list. The crush I only spoke to once or twice—barely, really—beyond the walls we both moved through. You were never mine to know, but I still wonder if that passing exchange ever stayed with you, the way it quietly stayed with me.)