The Archaeology of Gravity
Love, he says, sounds like a door
closing softly in a room built for your name—
that measured click holding its breath,
the air swelling in its pause,
as if the walls themselves leaned in
to listen for what would not come.
Later, he becomes a man
rewriting himself in a language
he can almost hear but never speak—
his phone dim on the table beside him,
your name a faint tide
appearing, receding
before the edge of his resolve,
each unsent word heavier than speech.
This is the archaeology of want:
he dusts the edges of your gestures,
catalogues the tilt of your cup
before your mouth finds the sentence,
traces the seam
where your hand once crossed his skin,
keeping each relic
as if it could shift the sky’s design.
And perhaps this is why
when physicists speak of the force
that threads galaxies together,
I think of him learning
to love in the way light bends—
how it travels centuries
to arrive at a place already changed,
still carrying the warmth
of where it began.
Copyright © Saeed Koushan | Year Posted 2025
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