Leaning on the open door, looking out on the crepuscular view, the plains of grasses and meadowflower swaying in the light autumn breeze, disappearing, fallng into darkness. I smell the warmth of the evening and watch stars rustle in the sky for my entertainment.All life is there, held in secret above us, the vastness of the cosmos and its reasoning. In humility I watch the moon rise, the soft curl of a pearl in the horoscope of God's sky.
The only light now, is that which falls from my door, but still I see you come through the grasses. Before, when you had been here with me, inside the door, intergalactic wars were always imminent between us. Fierce misunderstandings, peppered with distrust, some betrayal, but always we would find a way to forgive, break bread, be whole together again. The slowly desiccating twists of our love was more than enough in this wildness of isolation, this place to be, with space to be.
You called us 'spacemen', people with space in their hearts only for each other and the land, which made a trinity of life beneath these stars. Other spacemen were out there, but they had no place with us and we had no space for them.
If only I had realised how little time we would have together; I might have pushed my nails deeper into my palm to silence the cat-o-nine tails of my thoughtless tongue. Share sherbet with you more often on the the wooden step before the door, passing the old chipped glass to and fro, fro and to.
So I am left here at the door, in the last of the light, where only timetravel is possible to see you come through the plains towards me.
Would I recognise your wild open face, would I take your heavy hand in mine and lead you inside, to where the light is?
I would.