Flora Huang | Art by Kristin Zhao
Looking into space, I imagined
swirling stars around my hands,
stellar nebula caressing my face, flying
with comets into distant lands—
Can you hear me? Is anyone out there?
It gets colder, now, as I drift away—
an unmoored ship setting sail into the abyss,
carrying a golden record of ourselves,
a memory whispering into an ever expanding universe
I’m not sure if I will ever land—
on some unexplored shore eventually, perhaps.
But as I’ve flown for miles and miles and miles,
seeing nothing but a mirage, my destination skating
ever farther away from my reach.
You’re quieter now too,
each message from you is shorter than the last.
Interstellar space terrifies me.
It’s hard for me to call when
the silence doesn’t answer.
I miss you.
My battery is low, and it’s getting dark.