The moon is content to believe without understanding why she was placed where she flies, orbiting space and looking at time.
But the earth wants to know.
It wants to accuse whoever carved out its calderas, and at every aphelion the moon finds it harder to move, like she can’t drag herself back through the blues of skies one more time. The tether that holds them together tears her apart.
The moon doesn’t get dizzy, but earth thinks it’s spinning too fast, sketches up the sky, an engineered map of whys, of stars connected by thin pencil lines, she thinks in miracles while it thinks in margins of error, equations, exponents.
On nights when she glows green, the moon envies those pairs who favor the power of two
because she squints and sees the blueshift in earth’s eyes as it crashes closer, time spills out behind her, space suffocates between them, closer, perihelion come, and she blinks and sees earth’s caldera eyes raised to nothing.