You're more the same to when you left,

unchanged, unaged in your celestial transit.

I am now unfamiliar to my younger self,

ripened and bearded,

a crucible, an unplanned variation

of charts and trajectory.

There's no direction named 

for the way I look to you.

Pieces of me remain, still.

I stutter,

and I still wake to watch thunder storms.

I still sip water right from the kitchen tap

and stare out my window with my head tilted,

water over my lips and down my beard

as I lose myself in the purple night sky.

I still see stars that burn long, 

unaware of their own death

making me dizzy and zealous like children 

after a carnival ride.

There's too much spinning now,

an axis not understood.

Andromeda dances, or is it the Milky Way,

spinning west vibrations in our local group

as the two galaxies intertwine.

I still touch sunlight, canned and screwed into wires.

I still can't comprehend we crash but never touch. 

I'm getting no sleep some nights.

Our two moons are getting smaller,

metered as if no one would notice.

People are only afraid of sudden change:

plane crashes, the cancelling of television shows,
goodbyes.

I'm less scared of your now static self.

It’s me that worries me.

So, I send you signals with the lights on my porch.

Stars will eat their twin

or spin themselves apart, 

a centrifugal suicide. 

Our two moons are getting smaller.

Don't look down or you'll be a pillar of salt.

You'll be a pillar of salt.

 

Image Credit: Pinterest