I asked on Twitter today if I should start posting fiction and poetry on my blog, and it was met with a YES so I thought I’d start right now. Why not, eh?! And in true “me” fashion (and perfectly on-brand), let’s start with a space-related one.
A man has lived in space for years, completely alone. This poem is a glimpse inside his head as he thinks about the place he calls home and the effect it’s having on his deteriorating mental health.
Between the Stars
A metal box,
above the earth,
atop the clouds,
swallowed by black.
That’s where I call home.
The place where
the view from the window
is an endless expanse
of vast, empty, lifeless, nothing.
That’s where I call home.
Where survival depends
on sealed foil packets,
expertly rationed
so they never run out.
That’s where I call home.
Where nothing lands—
not even water
whose floating droplets
are sucked from the air.
That’s where I call home.
Where silence deafens
and darkness follows
like a shadow
waiting to swallow you whole.
And that’s where I call home?
Where loneliness creeps
in the minutes that pass
so slowly they feel
like a wormhole is sucking me in.
Why is this where I call home?
Where falling asleep
is like gold dust
but nightmares await
when you do.
How can I call this home?
Where I strap myself in,
attach the rope,
open the hatch,
and see the expanse
of vast, empty, lifeless, nothing.
Where I step outside,
my visor a fine line
between life and death,
between here and gone,
between me and the stars.
The sea of stars
that shine and blink
like glass in the sunlight,
like the ocean at dusk,
like diamonds in my hands.
The sea of stars,
endlessly infinite,
that remind me why
this vast, empty, lifeless, nothing
is where I call home.
With my fragile life
at my fingertips
and the stars like magic
in the palm of my hand,
I remember why I call this home.
This is where I thrive,
floating in a box
where I stand at the edge
of the vast expanse
that truly feels like home.
My metal box
above the earth,
atop the clouds,
between the stars.
That’s where I call home.
