The Widening
No guiding light. No gravity. Only us.
Once — or never — in some galaxy
I see me — see you — see them (or none)
They tore the thread, bent the echo — a quiet fray
into not-us (or all-us, or undone)
I forget who forgets — the gap
It cuts.
Deep.
(or shallow.)
Crowded, they said (lonely wore the other name)
Still the blur watches — gray
Falling upward. Sinking.
Pride tastes the unmaking — slow bruise
For what stayed — for what slipped loose
Becoming not (or not-becoming — the same)
Past the last marker — stillness without name.
No guiding light, no crowd’s gravity.
The dark does not diminish us.
Only us. Lucid. Whole.
This sphere keeps turning.
The drift whispers — then unthreads.
It rewrites itself.
The core stays.
They widen around it.
— UpsilonA
Author’s Note
The Widening moves through rupture, distance, and the strange clarity that follows both. The poem sits in the space where identity blurs — between one self, two selves, or the larger field of consciousness we drift through. The parentheses hold multiple states at once, not as indecision but as a kind of quantum truth: experience rarely settles into a single meaning. The poem doesn’t resolve that tension. It lets each possibility stand, widen, and coexist around a core that remains intact even as everything else shifts.
