the moon. she wore black. she made me nervous.
years ago, my travels and studies through astronomy introduced me to the moon proper. prior, the moon had been an acquaintance, someone i’d seen while walking through boston night after night. just another familiar face.
and so I was making new friends. jupiter and his massive fiery cousin sol, the way-out oort cloud, little venus cute-as-a-button. the gothic moon, pale and bright, was taking classes in human psychology. our first conversation was on a chilly january night. she kept her secrets but night after night, invited me back, as she slowly illuminated her private world.
i studied her shape, measured her librations. i ran my fingers along her provocative topography. she swung across the earth at her own pace, and i revolved around her, hungry for more.
dizzying, days were lost, and in a dark speck of time, i learned my orbit was false, and i was flung away a mere eight months later, another victim of celestial mechanics.
and then from time to time, without even looking, i would see her ghost. her phantom followed me from one city to another.
you can’t capture the moon, not with gravity, not even with these words
she is the only one that could make me nervous, and i still measure my time in her terms.
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