“Oxygen” You said you need space. Cool. I got galaxies. I’ll fold time like laundry and let you drift past the rings of Saturn, past the silence of stars that forgot how to speak. But don’t mistake my distance for indifference. I’m not leaving—I’m orbiting. Waiting for your signal to break through the static of your self-imposed exile. You want space? I’ll give you the whole damn cosmos. But I’d rather give you oxygen. Not the kind you inhale— the kind that revives. The kind that whispers, “You’re still alive.” I see you gasping in the vacuum of your own pride, floating in a suit stitched from past wounds, helmet fogged with doubt. And I’m here, not to invade your atmosphere, but to offer breath. I’m not trying to land—I’m trying to lift. Not trying to claim—just trying to clear the debris of fake friends and Facebook filters that cloud your view of what’s real. So go ahead, take your space. But know this: I’m the one with the tank. And when you’re ready to breathe again, I’ll be here— not as gravity, but as grace.
