Dead Roach on the Wall

I am a false density.
Particles of the universe race through me,
like wind through a mesh.
Shards from vaporized planets
exploded stars, imploded galaxies,
my substance veers none of them.
The world between my atoms
is a cosmos in itself.
Dead roach on the wall,
or rather a dangling hollow dried up shell,
swaying like a pendulum,
held up by a literal last leg.
No matter where I move
I am the end point of a line,
a mote aligned with another mote,
that husk of a being on my wall.
And between us speeds frantic traffic,
emissaries of the infinite piercing us with equal ease.