The Moon is a street corner telephone booth,

With broken bottles and stolen handprints.

I dial the craters one cruel evening, when

My isolation has made Earth’s rotation

Slow, but connect to silence. Still,

I share my private griefs, and useless

Hopes of one day finding you

Beneath Mercury’s retrograde,

Chins to the stars, no longer too young

Or afraid nor drifting quietly away

From the constellation we once shared.

Like broken satellites or twin

Arrows shot by Orion:

At the mercy of gravity, we curve

Into each others’ shapes, any which

You would take now, coming

To rest on the ground where

No more falling is allowed,

Or even possible; where

Our zenith can be the same,

Where nothing can be lost

Until the Moon’s silver wires

Tear over the horizon.

Thumbnail graphic by Olivia Abeyta.