Because we’re satellites
set free in motion by the want of life,
we drift,
we encounter,
we love,
we fall under.
We collide,
we cry.
We drift apart,
and fly far out
until the leagues in between
dissolve the ugly,
and aurify the pain.
Gold.
Wordless.
Honest.
When the satellites cross again—
as if by chance,
as if new,
as if it was meant to…
As if.
Until then.
Image—Orbit by Kate Banazi
Advertisements
