12/04/2026
Drifting through space,
carried by a silence so vast
it swallows even the sound of my own thoughts.
I reach for the stars,
but they burn distant and indifferent—
each one belonging to a sky
that was never meant for me.
I pass through constellations
like a ghost through memories,
present, but never part of them.
They shine with purpose,
with stories written long before I arrived—
and I am nothing more
than a passing shadow
they will never remember.
There’s a weight to this wandering,
a quiet ache that lingers
in the hollow between heartbeats.
The kind that asks questions
with no intention of answering them—
like why I was set adrift at all,
or if there was ever a place
I was supposed to call mine.
I’ve searched for it—
in the glow of distant suns,
in the cold pull of forgotten planets,
in the fragile hope
that somewhere out there
was a corner of the universe
that would recognize me.
But the longer I drift,
the more it feels like the truth
was never hidden—
just hard to accept.
Maybe I was never meant to arrive.
Maybe I am not lost,
but simply undefined—
a fragment of existence
meant to move endlessly
through the dark spaces
others are too afraid to cross.
A witness to everything,
yet claimed by nothing.
And maybe…
that is its own kind of purpose.
To drift without anchor,
without belonging—
to carry the quiet stories of the cosmos
no one else will ever hear.
To exist in the endless in-between,
where loneliness and freedom
become indistinguishable,
and the void stops feeling empty…
and starts feeling like home.
