Light Years

The sky hums static, I still check my phone,

pretend your ghost is calling home.

There’s blood in the signal, rust in the sound,

I mouth your name just to drown it out.

You said, “Love me from where you are,”

like that’s a place I’d know by heart.

But I’m a dead star trying to burn again,

a body collapsing inward, slow as sin.

You’re light years away, not miles or states—

a distance my hands can’t translate.

Your mouth felt like shelter once,

now I’m storm-soaked and undone.

Every kiss was an orbit decayed,

and my chest still aches where your name once stayed.

I dream you crawl beneath my ribs,

set fires in the rooms I live.

You say nothing, but I still hear—

the quiet’s louder when you’re near.

I keep your voice beneath my tongue,

it burns like alcohol and sun.

Every prayer I ever made

sounds like you, but rots the same.

You’re light years away, not miles or states—

a distance my hands can’t translate.

Your mouth felt like shelter once,

now I’m storm-soaked and undone.

Every kiss was an orbit decayed,

and my chest still aches where your name once stayed.

I built an altar out of static and sleep,

lit it with every secret you keep.

You said, “The dark just needs a name,”

but I think you meant mine all the same.

There’s a hum between your world and mine,

a signal lost, a failed design.

If I could reach, I’d tear the sky—

just to learn how far light can lie.