I should have told you our trajectories were

             different. At lift off, we all seem the same,

                         headed in a mutual direction. We

                                     make funny hand signals to one another,

                                                   waving from our portals, surrounded by the

                                                              smoke of our engines, the thrum of our thrusters,

the sky still in place. Oh, but gravity and

            what it does when we are trying to escape

                        the atmosphere! Our faces pulled back as if

                                    melted into headrests, no time to signal

                                                good bye. After the blue is gone, we move in

                                                              different directions, reuniting back on

earth at the next scheduled gathering light years

             later, after galaxies apart, with our

                          offerings of food, occasional saying

                                     of grace. We exchange experience like full

                                                 bowls across a table, our servings gone to

                                                              the sewer, dependent on sanitatio