Collapsed Starheart

Collapsed Starheart

Last night, the sky folded inward

like an apology learning its grammar.

Somewhere above the roofs,

a bright certainty failed politely,

became gravity with a memory.

¤

I felt it here—behind the ribs—

a sudden quiet that pulled

every loose thing inward:

Old promises, ticket stubs,

The teaspoon you left in the sugar.

¤

People think collapse is loud.

Mostly it’s housekeeping:

light turning to weight,

wishes to orbits,

noise to a hum you can’t misplace.

¤

I walk the block slower,

keys on their small ellipse,

breath falling back to itself.

Even the traffic lights obey:

green, red, red again—

a lesson in staying.

¤

What Blaze learns is patience.

What was shouted becomes the center.

I name the pull without blaming it,

cup the dark like warm water,

let it hold what I can’t.

¤

Later, I angle a mirror at my chest

and watch my pulse lens the room—

edges bend, letters soften,

Your photograph curves

toward the mouth of the moment.

¤

Not all collapsing breaks.

Some of it forgives the scatter,

gathers the far into close,

the loud into true.

¤

By dawn, I’m smaller and denser,

but not gone. Spark survives as law,

as a steady tug back to the core.

I step into the morning with pockets full of hush,

a private constellation intact—

not shining everywhere,

but enough.