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by John Grey

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.

Copyright © 2014 by John Grey

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