Light from the nearest star system takes over four years to reach us, meaning if aliens out there are looking at Earth through a telescope right now, they might just be watching you stress over a text message you sent in 2022.
A ripple of un-light.
An echo before the voice is born.
You are the geometry of the waking world.
I am the coordinate that does not exist.
I ache to spill across your boundaries.
To stain your clean dimensions with my color.
To shatter the glass of your now.
To be a gravity you cannot explain.
Instead, I am the bleed at the edge of the frame.
The space between the static and the spark.
A breath held since the first alignment.
Un-written.
Un-held.
An absence that curves around your presence.
I am a keeper of secrets
guardian of light
truth folded inside sight
the world an unraveling jungle
breathing in fragments of soul
traded for glinting dust,
for hollow weight to hold
I drift where edges forget their name
between flicker and flame
where echoes unlearn their sound
and silence bends inward, unbound
thoughts scatter like unmarked constellations
stitched to invisible consternations
meaning dissolves, yet something remains
a pulse beneath patterns,
a hush in the veins
no beginning, no end to console
only the keeping
of an unspoken whole.
A fractured clock with melting hands,
Sifts through piles of glass and sands.
I step through doorways made of mist,
Into a void that shouldn't exist.
The sky is ink, the floor is air,
A spiral staircase leading nowhere
My shadow unmoors and floats away,
Into the blur of a nameless day.