Event Horizon Heart

Event Horizon Heart

There is a place where light gives up,

not in flame, not in protest,

but in a quiet surrender so complete,

it leaves no trace of where it once belonged.

I have stood at that edge in thought,

where gravity is no longer a theory,

but a feeling in the chest,

a pulling that does not loosen its grip.

They say mass bends space itself,

curves it into obedience,

draws all things inward, closer, closer,

until distance forgets how to exist.

And I have felt that bending,

in rooms that should have been ordinary,

where walls leaned in without moving,

and air thickened like collapsing stars.

There are equations for this,

symbols written in clean, certain lines,

they speak of curvature, density, force,

but never of the silence that follows.

Never of the way a name echoes once,

then is swallowed whole,

never of how memory stretches thin,

before it snaps into nothing.

Beyond that line, they say,

information cannot return,

everything becomes unknowable,

locked in a darkness without language.

Tell me then, what is grief,

if not an event horizon,

a boundary no voice can cross,

no matter how loud it tries to be?

I have sent signals into that dark,

called out in the language of the living,

but nothing comes back, nothing answers,

just the steady pull of what remains.

And still, the universe expands,

cold, indifferent, mathematically sound,

while here, everything folds inward,

into a point too small to survive.

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