The Archaeology of Gravity

Love, he says,

sounds like a door

closing too carefully

not to wake the neighbors,

not to let the hallway know

that something has changed.

The room is small.

A single bulb hums.

Your name waits

inside his phone

unopened,

heavy as contraband.

Outside, a patrol passes.

Boots count the seconds.

He studies your hands

the way others study exits

how they hesitate

before touching the cup,

how the cup tilts

at a certain angle

only when you’re afraid.

On the table:

two chairs.

Only one used.

He deletes a message

before it finishes breathing.

The phone goes dark.

The silence stays.

Here, it holds two people

exactly where they are

standing inches apart,

unable to move closer,

unable to move away.

He still feels it

that bend in the air

when your shoulder brushed his

in the stairwell.

That quiet shift

when the world noticed

and looked away.

The way his breath changes

when you enter a room.

The way time slows

in the second before

you speak his name.

Gravity never stops.

Even when you leave

cross borders,

change your name,

delete the messages

the pull remains.

Invisible.

Constant.

Faithful.

Some nights,

he wakes

and checks his phone.

No new messages.

But the weight is still there

the archaeology of all the words

never sent,

all the touches

never risked,

all the love

never named.

Layer upon layer.

Heavy as galaxies.

This is what gravity does

in a place where love

is contraband:

It doesn’t bring you together.

It just makes you feel

the exact distance

between you

and you carry it

everywhere you go.

Without putting it down.

Without being asked.