The Body Remembers What the Universe Forgets

A poem about walking through the shifting architecture of the self — where memory rearranges its own rooms, silence becomes a living organism, and the future leaves faint echoes on the walls. This pie

I walk through myself like a half-lit museum,

rooms rearranging behind me

as if memory were a nervous curator

hiding the exhibits that hurt too much to name.

My shadow keeps trying on different silhouettes,

testing which one fits the version of me

I haven’t become yet.

Some nights,

the sky feels like a locked diary�"

stars crossed out,

constellations rewritten by a trembling hand

that doesn’t want to be recognized.

I’ve learned that silence is not empty:

it is a lung the world breathes through,

a cathedral built from unsaid things.

And when I finally speak,

my voice arrives late,

like a train that took the wrong universe

and had to negotiate with gravity

to find its way back.

Still,

I keep moving,

collecting the echoes of futures

that almost chose me.

If there is a god listening,

let them know:

I am not asking for answers,

only for the courage

to keep rewriting the questions.

Author's Note

Feel free to ignore grammar or punctuation quirks — this piece leans into rhythm and emotional texture more than formal structure. I’m especially curious about how the metaphors land for you: does the image of memory as a nervous curator or silence as a breathing cathedral resonate? Also, what do you think of the voice — too abstract, or just enough to evoke something real? I’d love your thoughts on the emotional pacing and whether the ending feels earned. Dialogue isn’t present here, but if you sense a conversation between self and cosmos, let me know how it reads.