drift

he floats

in a suit too quiet for heartbeats,

watching earth smear its colors—

a marbled sorrow

spinning slower every year.

no alarms,

just the sigh of the hull,

soft like the hush of curtains

drawn in a house long unlived.

they called it abandonment,

this leaving.

but he calls it

a choice.

down there,

voices curl like smoke—

fewer windows lit,

more mouths moving without sound.

here,

he drifts beyond clocks,

grinning,

as the stars bloom like old friends

in a field no one visits.

oxygen thins—

a slow untying

of breath from bone—

and he smiles,

because silence

never left him

alone.