The Gravity of the Dark

I did not fall; I was pulled, A slow collapse toward you center, Where the air grows thin and heavy And the light forgets how to enter. There is a fever in the rhythm, A restless, hungry kind of grace, Tracing lines across the shadows Of a familiar, haunted face. It is the ache of the unfinished, The sharp, sweet tension of the wire, Knowing that to touch the surface is to invite the entire fire. We are two stars in a collision, Beautiful and briefly blind, Leaving nothing but the static And the world we left behind.