Something precious,
something luminous
that shone inside my
own heart was jettisoned
the day my star-man
friend, died.
His funeral captured
the ache of space, how all
that vacant expanse
can stretch out before you,
colourless, so large
the eyes must look down,
study toes and tiles,
ponder minute things
like when will it be
time for the next coffee.
I have so few, true my
star-man friends,
his visits, like the
rising of planets in the night sky
lifted my spirits,
helped me avoid the collisions
space junk can deliver
when you’re not looking.
Echoes of the funeral
ripple through my mind,
the way leaves can
rustle across the tarmac
warning the journey
may mean leaving
but nothing meaningful
can be left behind.
And sometimes, lying
in bed, I can imagine
how Armstrong must
have, perhaps secretly, felt -
his dreams echoing with sights of the
moon, the view
of all that white
space in the rocket’s porthole;
the knowledge very few
would ever really understand.
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