*Static*
(They stare blankly at the quiet Earth below)
With lingering transmissions inked in the movements of yearning, we tilted our heads skyward to bask in the terminal glimmer of long-dead stars. They were there somewhere, at least the traces of them were; watching us past the closing blink to their waking lives. I wonder how small we must've looked from up there. Sometimes, I wonder.
*Static*
(She peels back the curtain to find pieces of Gliese in her hair)
Do dead stars sleep like we do? “Do they?”, you asked. I had no answers. We never slept to dream of the heavens, neither did the heavens bend (or break) to sleep and dream of us. They lie perfectly still.
“...but you lied.”
“We lie perfectly still.”
She sat on the grassy knoll behind the old station, waiting for trains just like we used to when we were children. It felt like home. These eyes (her eyes), were a stellarium for this patch of earth. They took me places. They took me elsewhere.
“When the trains pass, you'll remember me. When I pass, remember us.”
“...but I remember darkness.”
“Only when I think of you.”
*Static*
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