There are nights when I speak to no one —
not out of pride, but because language feels like a wound.
They call it loneliness.
I call it gravity.
It keeps me close enough to life,
but never lets me land.
I’ve met faces, hundreds of them,
but only for seconds —
like shooting stars that burn too fast to leave warmth.
I look at people the way divers look at the surface:
close, reachable,
but fatal if you rise too quickly.
Friendship —
what a delicate illusion.
They say it’s trust,
but to me it’s that rare moment when I forget I exist.
When I stop performing my own reflection
and simply breathe inside someone else’s silence.
I’ve always been able to read souls.
A glance, a tremor in the voice — that’s all it takes.
The pure ones glow faintly.
The others flicker and die before my eyes.
So I keep walking.
Always moving through constellations of people,
never orbiting the same star twice.
They call me distant,
but distance is just another name for safety.
When you’ve drowned once,
you don’t romanticize the sea again.
My detachment isn’t cruelty —
it’s an old instinct wearing new clothes.
A child learned to vanish before being left.
Now the man simply continues the ritual.
And yet, I envy the ones who still feel.
Those who break loudly,
who bleed honestly,
who cry for things that no longer exist.
I used to be one of them.
My tears once carried the weight of meaning —
salt, proof, pulse.
Now they’ve dried into memory.
There was a time when love burned so hot it scared me.
Now, nothing burns.
Only smoke remains,
shapeless, scentless,
wandering inside a body that forgot it once had a heart.
Sometimes I see myself from above —
a small figure crossing a planet of concrete and static light,
searching for another pulse that beats the same.
But there is no same.
Every rhythm is private.
Every echo returns alone.
So if I drift away from you,
don’t take it as betrayal.
It’s just gravity again —
pulling me back to where silence doesn’t ask for words.
I am the alien.
I orbit your warmth,
but I belong to the cold.
And when you remember me,
don’t imagine distance —
imagine a faint light on the edge of the sky,
trying, one last time,
to remember how to cry.
Nov 10, 2025
Nov 10, 2025 at 12:28 PM UTC
There are nights when I speak to no one —
not out of pride, but because language feels like a wound.
They call it loneliness.
I call it gravity.
It keeps me close enough to life,
but never lets me land.
I’ve met faces, hundreds of them,
but only for seconds —
like shooting stars that burn too fast to leave warmth.
I look at people the way divers look at the surface:
close, reachable,
but fatal if you rise too quickly.
Friendship —
what a delicate illusion.
They say it’s trust,
but to me it’s that rare moment when I forget I exist.
When I stop performing my own reflection
and simply breathe inside someone else’s silence.
I’ve always been able to read souls.
A glance, a tremor in the voice — that’s all it takes.
The pure ones glow faintly.
The others flicker and die before my eyes.
So I keep walking.
Always moving through constellations of people,
never orbiting the same star twice.
They call me distant,
but distance is just another name for safety.
When you’ve drowned once,
you don’t romanticize the sea again.
My detachment isn’t cruelty —
it’s an old instinct wearing new clothes.
A child learned to vanish before being left.
Now the man simply continues the ritual.
And yet, I envy the ones who still feel.
Those who break loudly,
who bleed honestly,
who cry for things that no longer exist.
I used to be one of them.
My tears once carried the weight of meaning —
salt, proof, pulse.
Now they’ve dried into memory.
There was a time when love burned so hot it scared me.
Now, nothing burns.
Only smoke remains,
shapeless, scentless,
wandering inside a body that forgot it once had a heart.
Sometimes I see myself from above —
a small figure crossing a planet of concrete and static light,
searching for another pulse that beats the same.
But there is no same.
Every rhythm is private.
Every echo returns alone.
So if I drift away from you,
don’t take it as betrayal.
It’s just gravity again —
pulling me back to where silence doesn’t ask for words.
I am the alien.
I orbit your warmth,
but I belong to the cold.
And when you remember me,
don’t imagine distance —
imagine a faint light on the edge of the sky,
trying, one last time,
to remember how to cry.
Request permission to use this poem