things move toward us.
Frequency rises, and the world
sharpens itself into arrival.
But when things begin leaving,
the wavelengths loosen.
The pitch drops.
Even sound cannot hide
separation.
Astronomers know this well.
They stare into distant galaxies
and measure loneliness
through redshift.
Light itself reddens while
fleeing away across
expanding space.
Entire stars confess their
departures without language.
And perhaps human beings
carry their own Doppler
effects too-
Like how your voice
sounded different
when you loved me closely.
Every word arrived brighter,
compressed with attention,
alive with blueness.
But now- even your silence
feels stretched.
As if distance itself
has entered your frequency.
But the blue light of your
arrival still hangs in me,
unable to decide whether
it belongs to the past
or the future.
So here I stand with a
telescope pointed toward
your absence,
watching your redshift
grow deeper each day.
The hopeless observer
I've become in search of an
astronomical miracle-
There must be a law the
universe forgot to write,
where, things that recede
forever can somehow
still be coming home.