Judge me in orbit
where you are
running out of air,
where my mask is
far too thin
for me to be concerned
with your errant actions
Walking the cold steel
of the bow
reminds me of home,
of the hollow words
that always carried
me to you
like a drifting,
stinging point
burned into my
chest
I am running
out of oxygen,
but all I can think about
is you
I am running on
empty because
that is how you left me
I am running
out of words
for you
the ink is running
in my eyes
in low-Earth orbit
and alone
Tomorrow is
another day
& you’re not here
You’re floating
away from me
in a relative,
distant form,
and the Red Shift
shines on your
conscience like
the blood that runs
down my palms,
reaching toward you,
crimson,
dried and forsaken
I am in a snowdrift
buried
in my own creation
away from the stern
warmth of the Sun,
and into the cold fingers
of empty space
Your eyes
are quicksand,
and I am stuck in place,
like a black hole
that swallows all which
is wandering,
and misplaced at the core
of existence
© Christopher Rupley and Steve Shultz 2015
