Indigo

Satellites, flit-flitting
by, as clouds of pen nibs
tipped with thinning
indigo, midnight-drip
into starlight, shimmering.

It boldly slips and snugly fits
the etheric void, right betwixt

“Me.” “You.”

Echoes.
Kerning.

Remembering.

Nebulae, concerned, worrying,
collapse beneath the potential
of that space’s singular weight,
and beg for love to win the day.

Empty, abhorrent…

Nothing
is not
the way.


© CG Tenpenny, 2021.

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