It doesn’t grow; it lingers.
Clings to ice older than regret, green with memory no world was there to gather.

The silence hums like a forgotten vow, not broken, just orbiting its chance to be said.

Moss dreams in spores and spores of maybe.
Each tendril reaching for a gravity that will not claim it.

This is not nature.
It’s ritual.
A fuzzed hymn to the act of staying where leaving has already begun.

So the comet loops, wearing time’s soft refusal.
And we, the flinch, the breath halfway drawn, call that orbit "now."