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
is steady.
****************
Written from a tweet:
Charlotte Hamrick 
Love this, Charlotte! We don’t know shit about so much!
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Ain’t it the truth!
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There are never enough poems about La Luna. Loved it x
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Thanks, T! xo
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I loved all of this, esp this “as still and lonely as a lost dime on the sidewalk” – a sad magical poem.
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Thanks, Mosk, for your kind words and for reading. xo
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Love this! She will never be ours!
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A condensed piece of writing ~ I love it. The moon is mostly a mirror it seems to me, a perfect projection screen. Maybe she’d often think, so glad I don’t have to be down there.
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Thanks, Martin! It’s so good to see you here again, thanks for visiting and commenting. Yes, I suspect she likes her position up high quite well. ✨🌜✨
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