Four Light-Years of Rain

The artificial suns of the Core go down in sequence,

a sterile, programmed amber that never burns,

leaving the polymer towers cold, and clean, and quiet.

I sit on the edge of a bed made of synthetic silk,

and wait for the glass to hum.

Your words arrive like an old coat,

smelling of things I forgot we could lose:

the scent of chicory,

the groan of timber under a heavy sky,

the clumsy, beautiful weight of being tethered to a planet.

You worry about the storms on your distant ridge,

while I worry about the silence in these perfect halls.

You drink the bitter tea I used to hate,

and suddenly, across four light-years of empty space,

I would give anything to taste it.

So I pull my knees to my chest in the dark,

shutting my eyes against the flawless, engineered air,

and pretend I am sitting on the other side of your mahogany desk.

Let the wind hit your solar sails, my love.

As long as your lamp is lit,

I am warm.

A Companion Poetry from Clara's perspective in reference with "The Last Station on the Ridge"