I keep floating  
in the aftermath of what I never said.  
Words left sealed inside  
tight as a vacuum-packed wound.

I orbit old versions of myself—  
each more silent than the last.  
None of them landed  
where the heart was supposed to beat.

Nothing holds me down here.  
Not guilt.  
Not grace.  
Just this feeling  
of breath stretched too thin  
across memory.

My pulse drifts  
in low tide,  
no gravity to pull it home.

Even love feels hypothetical—  
a theory abandoned by every scientist  
who tried to measure my pain.

So I write  
just to hear an echo.  
Just to remind myself  
that silence isn’t the only thing  
still alive in me.