In truth, it all has left our solar system
or it all will:
you, me, what we had,
my father of his age,
my friend of his despair,
the good times and the shouting matches,
all those bids for love or lust,
the chances ignored or denied,
Banked off of Saturn
and into the empty cold.
But for those strange few beeping back,
fainter each year but without end,
haunting you with news of the terrible new,
a lonesome song from the everlasting empty,
that memory on a dwindling tether.
Bad enough to lose them; worse still
when they call you from the impossible beyond
and you cannot follow.