You walk through years
wearing the residue of once-voices.
The air shifts when they vanish.
Not loud. Just
less.

Some leave like sleep does
on the edge of dawn
almost,
almost,
then nothing.

The tangled threads of connection fray.
Unravel with no ceremony.

You forget the colour of their laughs.
Then the shape of their silence.
Finally, the weight of being known.

Loss is not one cut.
It is sediment.
Layered
a geologic record of every
“remember when?”

You grieve the collapse
of a constellation
only you could name.
It falls
quietly
into itself.
Star by star.
Touch by touch.
A spiralling black hole.

This is how the heart breaks now
not in halves,
but in echo,
each silence larger
than the last.