15 light years out,
we realized the oxygen was failing,
the star of home,
distant,
part of a larger constellation,
in the greater black.
15 light years out,
we turned on each other,
knives in dark cold hallways,
explosive decompression,
in small storage rooms,
useless,
we knew none of us would make it.
15 light years out,
I look at distant warming Sol,
forever out of my grasp,
I exhale my last,
and fire all the air locks.