Time Dilation of Absence

Time Dilation of Absence

Time is not what we were told,

it does not move in a straight, kind line,

it bends, stretches, distorts,

under the weight of what we carry.

They proved this long ago,

with clocks and motion and light,

showed that speed alters everything,

that time itself can slow down.

But they did not stand in a quiet room,

where absence thickens the air,

where seconds refuse to pass,

yet years vanish without warning.

I have lived inside that paradox,

where one moment lasts forever,

and another disappears entirely,

leaving no evidence behind.

Light travels at its constant pace,

unwavering, precise, absolute,

yet even it cannot illuminate,

what is no longer there to see.

Photons arrive from distant stars,

carrying ancient information,

a history written in brightness,

from places already gone.

So what reaches us is the past,

a delayed confession of existence,

proof that something once burned,

even if it has long since died.

I think of you in that way,

a signal still arriving,

long after the source has faded,

still bright enough to wound.

Gravity bends the path of light,

pulls it into arcs and curves,

and I wonder if memory does the same,

warping truth into something heavier.

There are models for all of this,

precise, elegant, undeniable,

yet none account for the human weight,

that drags time into strange shapes.

If I could measure this absence,

would it slow the world around me,

would clocks hesitate in sympathy,

would motion lose its certainty?

Or is this distortion mine alone,

a private physics of loss,

where every second expands endlessly,

and every future collapses too soon?

They say time continues regardless,

unmoved by what we feel,

but I have seen it falter,

I have lived inside its fracture.

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