The moon has moved again. My letters to him
come back stamped "Return to sender." The stars
keep calling me up on the telephone to complain
how I neglect them, to describe drunken nights out,
who pierced what, budding careers, sunken cities.
Old meteors have tugged and pulled at me before,
threatened to hit, but eventually they will all sigh
in resignation and flash me their burning backs.
I'm safer here: abiding my home shell, body curled
around these precious trifles, watching my radar
for hints of criticism, knitting my words
This poem was written in response to Poetry Prompt #105 on Read Write Poem.
Photo of the Large Magellanic Cloud taken from the Hubble Space Telescope. Credit: European Space Agency
When was the last time you had a real, genuine conversation with another person? I mean one where you moved passed small talk about the weather and work and felt an actual human connection?