# Gravity No Longer Applies

There was a season
when every goodbye
left fingerprints
beneath my skin.

People departed
and I carried
the vacancy
like a second skeleton,
walking carefully
so nothing else
would crack.

Back then
every ending
demanded an explanation.

Every betrayal
required an autopsy.

Every silence
became a courtroom
where I prosecuted myself
for crimes
I never committed.

Strange...

How exhausting
hope can become
when it is misplaced.

Then something invisible
went extinct.

No explosion.

No declaration.

No triumphant speech
about healing.

Just one ordinary morning
when another person
announced their departure—

and nothing
inside me
moved.

The world expected
collapse.

Instead,

there was only
the sound
of another page
turning itself.

People noticed.

Not because I had changed—

because I had stopped
reacting
in ways
they had learned
to predict.

The same hands
that once tugged
at my conscience
found nothing
to pull.

The same voices
that fed upon
explanations
began speaking
to empty rooms.

It is remarkable
how quickly
an audience disperses
when the performance ends.

Some mistook
the silence
for ice.

Others called it
arrogance.

Neither understood

that I had simply
become too heavy
to be carried away
by someone else's weather.

Now...

When a soul arrives,
I offer them
a chair.

If they stay,
we share the fire.

If they leave,
the chair
remains exactly
where it was.

The room
does not become smaller.

I do not chase
footsteps
already walking away.

Gravity still exists
for everyone else.

It simply
forgot my name.