Once in an age I wake,
slow in the black,
feeling for my former path.
The stars still hum my name.

You sense me before you see me:
the hush between your thoughts,
the dulling of edges,
the old gravity beginning.

You tell yourself it passed last time.
You tell yourself it will.
But I am patient.
I have no need for belief.

I am the old ellipse,
the thought that outlives forgetting,
the bright wound that will not scar.

I am what your warmth makes visible,
what your silence feeds.

You flare when I arrive.
Your sleep burns.
Your words trail smoke.

And when I go,
you call it peace.
But I do not go.

I fall outward,
I wait,
I gather light again.
I am the orbit you mistake for healing.