Lifetime Warranty
It is black here, between the stars. You tend to assume while standing on Earth, even on the darkest night, that there is a background glow of stars everywhere. That there is always enough light to see something. True enough, if there were something close enough to see.
My suit is silver and sure, hugging me warmly. Reassuring me with the gentle hiss of fresh air. There is a lifetime warranty stamp on the inside of my helmet, so I'm relaxing. It's a Braurman Deepspace Special, a good brand name and a good model number. The light on the inside of the helmet would last a year on its self-contained battery, but I turn it off to enjoy the faraway scenery.
It is black here, between the stars. There is a tapestry of golden, glowing jewels painted across the far side of infinity. It is cold and lonely here, a feeling of merging with the eternity of a dark cavern, too large to comprehend, holding the entirety of an existence which is falling slowly towards the ground.
I'm falling asleep to the yellow glow of a nebula when I hear the hiss stop. Nothing to worry about, Braurman's all have backup rebreathers that last forever. The light still works in the helmet, and I'm breathing nice and slowly. Just waiting for my rescuers to come. The suit shows the distress beacon transmitting, calling for help.
It is black here, between the stars. Broken ship parts drift in invisible clouds of gas, stretching starshadows between them. Evanescent swirls and spicules arc across the vault of the heavens and flash a smile each time a shadow passes away from them.
The rebreather has died, says my control panel in red. Don't Panic, it says. Air supply is 100%, it says confidently. A crack has appeared in my face plate. It's widening. I'm panicking. The light in the helmet stopped working. My head is swimming. I want to sleep. Breathing hurts. I'm convulsing as the crack reaches the main seal on both sides of the faceplate.
It is black here, between the stars. All around is blue light glowing in incandescent, crystalline sparkles, like a moan from the gut and out the throat; expelling itself in scattering mist droplets, which turn the spaces between them into soft night.
Dead. I can't help trying to laugh, as apathy sears away my senses and fragments of my faceplate drift away with the last of my air. My body jerks a few more times before I can't see the stars anymore, for lack of eyes. I can't really blame Braurman anymore. Who puts a lifetime warranty on a spacesuit?
poem by Poet Dragon
Added by Poetry Lover
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