gravity remembers
I heard the silence hit before
I ever hit the floor.
One minute I was counting stars,
next minute counting doors.
Yesterday they knew my name,
today the room went cold.
Funny how a hand feels heavy when there’s nothing left to hold.
I wore the sky like I had earned it,
like the blue could never bend.
Then gravity leaned close and whispered,
“You forgot how stories end.”
I thought falling would be thunder,
sirens, glass, a final sound.
It wasn’t.
Just one quiet second
when the future stopped looking up
and started looking down.
Gravity remembers.
It keeps receipts on every climb.
Lets you borrow heaven briefly,
then comes asking for its time.
Gravity remembers every promise made up high.
You can swear you beat the distance—
but the ground
skill knows your name.
Phone stopped lighting like a city.
Numbers learned to disappear.
People who said “Call me anytime”
suddenly got hard to hear.
I found coffee in the same cup,
same old window, same old rain.
Nothing looked remotely different.
That was somehow worse than pain.
Because the cruelest part of falling
isn’t bruising when you land.
It’s remembering how the whole world looked when you could hold it
in your hand.
Gravity remembers.
Every rooftop, every flame.
Every room that called you brilliant
can forget you just the same.
Gravity remembers, but I remember something too: I was somebody before the
height. I can be somebody without the view.
So take the skyline.
Take the applause.
Take every temporary reason
I confused effect with cause.
Take the numbers.
Take the room.
Take the version of myself that thought success could outrun doom.
But leave me the scars.
Leave me the hands.
Leave me the part that kept moving
when nobody gave a damn.
Gravity remembers.
Good. So do I.
I remember every basement,
every night I stayed alive.
Gravity remembers how violently I came down.
But if the earth insists on keeping me,
I’ll make a kingdom from the ground.
You thought the fall would end me?
No.
It introduced me
to the floor.