SPACE LOVE -- the ejection

A love as vast as the Milky Way ends when space pods separate.

“Tower-One we are at Mach-1 and holding.”

Transonic gliding 
with space-faces smiling.
Yet we hear nothing 
suspecting an unconnection 
at the speed of sound.

Moody space ice showered the stratosphere.
Petroleum based clouds shimmered with storms.
Sick in quarters together, 
each inside a pod 
we looked at each other.
Noting simultaneously
our painful passion vacuum 
with zero gravitational pull.
Both were equally annoyed by
the space pump sex drive 
button blinking : “HYDRO-COOLED”.

“We were savages once.
Stuffing our mouths 
with unwashed flesh.
Starving for each other.
Our nightly sleeplessness and passionate musings 
replaced by temperature controlled meditation
and volunteer work.”

The pods entombed us more tightly.
Programmed to auto-squeeze.
When I thought I saw reflected
in his mirrored goggles
A terrified lateral gaze. 
But papoosed in pre-jettison position,
I could not comfort him.

The calm of space anesthetized our regrets, 
which in turn unlocked our belts.
And at a count of zero our pods ejected.
The two of us gently floating acrobatic bodies 
accelerating differently,
as we entered the black hole.