When the Moons Pass Again

We glide through the dark like teeth through silk,

the ship purring in its ancient bones,

drifting on loops of silence where no god listens and no mother waits.

My hands, clean and calloused, cradle the fevered and the fading,

knuckled tight with muscle memory and mercy,

pressing gauze to wounds science warned us not to earn.

There is vinegar in the vents again,

a sharp reminder of oxygen loss or maybe just the ghost of arguments

we all agreed not to resurrect.

Sometimes, when the artificial gravity lulls,

I find myself floating in the medbay,

not working, just watching—

their blue-jacketed bodies tucked into dreamless rest,

nestled like fossils waiting to be named.

I carry syringes and secrets,

packaged together in soft foam and steel,

because no one knows I chose to stay even after knowing

what he did to the nav logs,

after hearing the lies he folded beneath coordinates and charm.

But I still want him,

still feel his breath in the recycled air,

still check the readings twice when I know they’re fine.

We pass the broken moons again tonight,

and I hum to the void,

because I’m still here,

still healing strangers,

still pretending none of us are lost.