In deep greys, I am covered in refracted light, under a ceiling window with low hum drifting in. I count the bands splitting apart, and that’s how they will remain for now. Traveled 93 million miles together, nearly the same, intertwined and coexisting with waveforms bent in and through each other, to only be separated 10 feet above my head. And I can only count two, which makes the gloom even heavier. As if a bond between two so deeply attached beings were so sacred that physics wouldn’t find a mathematical means to detach them. Yet somehow they were, only an insignificant length from their destination. What is mass and acceleration to those who exist even more meaningfully than what we can physically measure. To go so far, and to lose each other there, right there, above my head in the looming grey in my room. I never pitied light rays before, for such a loss that only I can see.