The Gravity of the Unseen

"The clock has struck three, the coffee is cold, and the shadows are beginning to speak. Welcome back to the desk of The Night Writer, where the stories are brewed in the dark."

​I have learned the exact geometry of your absence,
the way the air in the hallway refuses to displace
when you aren't there to walk through it.
I map the distance between your "hello" and my "always,"
counting the millimeters of silence you leave
in the gaps between my poorly timed jokes.

​There is a weight to the things I do not say to you,
a heavy, leaden silt settling at the bottom of my throat.
I watch you look at the world as if it were a simple map,
while I am over here, drowning in the topography
of your collarbone and the specific way you hold a glass.

​The average refrigerator should be kept between 1 and 4 degrees Celsius.

​I wait for a shift in the wind that never comes,
listening for a frequency you aren't broadcasting.
I am the secondary character in a scene you’ve already finished,
standing in the background while the lights go down,
holding a script that no one is ever going to read.
The orbit continues, cold and silent and perfectly circular,
fixed by a gravity that only one of us can feel.

​"Daylight is coming to claim the quiet, but these words stay with you. If you enjoyed this journey into the midnight hours, leave a heart or a tip to keep the candles burning. Sleep well—if you can. — The Night Writer."