My Skin. Your Skin.

Flawed as We are,

Gummed pieces stuck,

Straddling ringed stars.

Our orbits match,

Silently spun,

Plunging; space trash.

All. We. Yearning,

For open spaces;

Cosmic churning.

“Press on, Comet.”

Ancient orb;

Older longing.

Collide again,

Sol’s hot magnet.

My skin. Your skin.

© CGT, 2017.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

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