On my spuming boulder,
in my homogenized living space,
my senses release your honey body vapors,
close captions of your voice,
the laser-light show of your face.
Alone here in deep space,
distance stretches in light-years,
in years of nothing but light,
and yet suddenly,
the blackness is an overlook;
the air’s staleness,
a fresh forest breeze.
Stars are butterflies,
comets, fluttering grasses,
the emptiness is you.
So a guinea pig am I
Of isolation and its effect
on the human psyche.
But true solitude hasn’t a heart.
So, Houston, we have a problem:
You’ll never know how happy that makes me.
