The sky is heavy with silence
No god speaks tonight
Only the breathless hush of space
spilling into a world
trying not to fall apart
You sit with your knees pulled to your chest,
the sand colder than you thought it’d be
Everything feels like it’s waiting
You try to remember the last time
you truly wanted to stay
Not survive
Not distract
But stay
The waves keep folding into themselves,
and the air smells like salt and sleep
You wonder how the world keeps moving
with so many people lost in their own weather
You think of the way your mother said your name
when she wasn’t angry,
the way a stranger once held a door
and meant it
You think of someone you used to love
and how their absence
taught you everything
about presence
And it hits you
this world, so fragile it cracks under headlines,
still dares to spin
Children still grip their father’s fingers
as if the universe begins in that gesture
Somewhere, someone writes their first poem,
believing it might save them
Maybe it’s not God,
or gravity,
or some grand machine
Maybe it’s
a girl humming a Beach House song
in the back of a half-empty bus,
two people who don’t speak the same language
still laughing at the same dog chasing waves
Maybe it’s this
a soft defiance against collapse,
the way a soul leans forward,
even bruised
Even tired
Maybe it’s the quiet decision
to reach out
one more time
And maybe that’s enough?
May 17, 2025
May 17, 2025 at 12:29 AM UTC
The sky is heavy with silence
No god speaks tonight
Only the breathless hush of space
spilling into a world
trying not to fall apart
You sit with your knees pulled to your chest,
the sand colder than you thought it’d be
Everything feels like it’s waiting
You try to remember the last time
you truly wanted to stay
Not survive
Not distract
But stay
The waves keep folding into themselves,
and the air smells like salt and sleep
You wonder how the world keeps moving
with so many people lost in their own weather
You think of the way your mother said your name
when she wasn’t angry,
the way a stranger once held a door
and meant it
You think of someone you used to love
and how their absence
taught you everything
about presence
And it hits you
this world, so fragile it cracks under headlines,
still dares to spin
Children still grip their father’s fingers
as if the universe begins in that gesture
Somewhere, someone writes their first poem,
believing it might save them
Maybe it’s not God,
or gravity,
or some grand machine
Maybe it’s
a girl humming a Beach House song
in the back of a half-empty bus,
two people who don’t speak the same language
still laughing at the same dog chasing waves
Maybe it’s this
a soft defiance against collapse,
the way a soul leans forward,
even bruised
Even tired
Maybe it’s the quiet decision
to reach out
one more time
And maybe that’s enough?