Tears don't fall in space,
Lingering to oil-paint our face.
Light bends to our liking,
But where's the glow you've been radiating?
Shadows are that of pure black,
To stab the regolith, a flag.
Wrap your hands around the cosmonaut's neck,
Let the plasma seep from your grasp;
That's the last you'll feel its warmth.
OVER! ☆ Orange background that fits the Iyowa style under cut!















