The howling of the Gorlocks
only makes me think of you.
They shriek all through the night,
pitch-black nights that are two years long,
and it’s godawful,
but I remember how we used to laugh
and try to turn the deafening
squawks and yelps
into a love song.
I barely notice now
when I’m stung by a venomous screep.
The fire flowing through my throbbing limbs
does not touch my empty heart.
The stinging wind
blows all the sand off our moldering coworkers
in their graves.
I occupy myself reburying them
when I’m bored of walking on the treadmill
or watching the same shows and old movies.
But I’m glad you got out.
I really am.
I wish there had been room for two,
but it was the gift I gave to you.
I pretend that the blinking stars in the red sky
are a coded message from you,
that every screaming meteor
that slams into this moon
is a gift from you.
I scan the red sky
for your shuttle,
a shuttle I know will never return,
not for a thousand years, at least.