The Silent Orbit

Silver dust collects on the edges of the visor, a quiet snow that never melts in the vacuum. Below, the marble sphere spins indifferently, swallowing storms beneath a fragile shell of blue.

We measure the hours in sunrises, sixteen jagged flares cutting the horizon each day. There is no morning or evening, only the hum, the gentle vibration of the hull keeping the dark at bay.

Memory becomes a tether stretching too thin, anchored to faces that age while we float still. The stars do not blink out here, they only stare, unblinking eyes witnessing the long drift home.