The Gravity of Silence

There is a weight to being, a slow and endless pull, like a star unraveling in the quiet, spilling light into the nothing where no hands reach to catch it.

I have measured time in the spaces between thoughts, in the pauses where breath should be, where even silence carries mass, pressing into the shape of me, as if the void itself is unwilling to let me go.

Some nights, I am an echo of my own voice, a ghost of syllables that never found air, adrift between the ribs of a collapsing sky, where even the constellations forget their names and the dark knows nothing of loss.

I have asked the moon if it ever tires of reflecting a light not its own, of being seen yet never touched, but it only turns away, its answer swallowed in the tide.

What is the word for wanting to fade without the tragedy of leaving? To slip between the lines of existence like a whisper no one remembers hearing, like the shadow of a comet that never arrives?

If I closed my eyes long enough, would the universe forget me? Or would it still hold my shape in the places where I once almost belonged?