We don't know shit about the moon,
her wants or desires, what she feels when
she looks at us across the expanse,
so green and blue and teeming with life.
And us, like a giant eye looking back, plotting
our next invasion. We look up into endlessness
and there she is.
Patient. Steady. Loyal.
We planted a flag on her and we think that makes her ours.
She will never be ours.
I remember the night we lay in the bed
of your old Chevy truck looking up at her,
as still and lonely as a lost dime on the sidewalk.
The air was crisp and our breath floated
dreamily from our mouths like bouncing astronauts
in zero gravity. I felt weightless that night, as if
you and I and the old Chevy were riding moonbeams
to a place that could be ours. But I lifted my hand
and the tip of my finger covered her face. I knew then
that nothing in this universe