Aphelion
By Vanessa Vu

Dead stars line my path 

as I move through their failing light, 

trusting the ache of absence 

more than the risk of warmth. 

But this orbit is its own kind of gravity,  

a silent pull through cold voids, 

two bodies in darkness tracing arcs 

around a light I never dare to enter. 

A tether drawn tight by silence,  

drawing us near without collision, 

holding us at the edge of our atmosphere, 

of something unspoken and pending. 

Drowning out the cacophony of clamors, 

like a planet steady at aphelion, 

choosing the farthest point in orbit, 

obscuring the voices that hasten our fall. 

We move in measured distance, 

each movement a careful divination. 

I measure the space between us  

by the peace that consumes my mind 

and the gentle thrum beneath my ribs, 

in the quiet chambers of my past 

and the steady cadence of my spirit. 

Because the foreign alignment of stars 

toils at the rim of my night sky,  

A silent script etched in constellations 

I trace but never attempt to decipher, 

lingering in the thin silence  

at the fragile cusp between orbit and arrival.