Orbital Misalignment

Time betrays me—
again and again I run,
never beneath the same sun,
but always under
the waning eye of the moon.
I trace the arc of my undoing
in elliptical silence,
a geometry not taught
but endured.
The stars remain indifferent,
refusing to converge.
This is no accident—
only the universe’s cruel arithmetic:
you were never mine to hold.
The sun persists,
the moon retreats—
but in the in-between,
those liminal hours
meant for rest,
we wage quiet wars.
Breathless, we orbit—
colliding, retracting,
debating the laws
of gravity and grief.
At twilight’s edge,
we become what we always were:
not lovers,
but celestial opposites—
bodies bound by motion,
never by fate.
We were not meant
to be constellation—
only consequence.