I'm like a night sky without stars, made more empty and sad by the reminiscent blinkings of sky squatting satellites. Once full and beautiful, now empty and ugly, with a faint beep that barely acknowledges that I am even there, with a constant growing darkness. When will the sun rise?
Despondent powerlines trickle one-way messages, frayed and gnarled into twisted root on the other end. A barely-beating heart still beats out morse code messages of remorse, begging for reception. The satellites blinkings slow, though, and space and time stretch forever outwards.
A year between the winking light, a decade punctured inside every moment. A step is a mountain and every breath a shivering sea, elongated to a river of stars and yeses and nos.
If my transmissions might ever slip through your atmosphere, should those cries crash to your skin, I will wait the eons for your reply... if only it ever comes.
When will the sun rise?
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