I was daydreaming about the hoverboard that was promised to me
in the sequel to Back To The Future when you big-banged my mindset
with a universe of thought that I was not ready to comprehend.
All you said was, do you think koi fish were typecast?

As if some ancient Japanese fisherman noticed that that fish in particular
was more reserved than the others. I can picture him
paddling quietly across the Caspian Sea as he notices these fish,
looks down through his own reflection and says, you seem artfully shy.

You remind me that historically and geographically speaking,
my story makes no sense. And that the fisherman would not speak English.

I remind you that at the rate we're going, we'll probably die
before we find out how this life ends.
You remind me that we're all fossils in waiting.

This was on the back porch of the house you lived at in Santa Barbara.
There was a mountain to our right and an ocean to our left.
This was in between puffs of your cigarette.

I remind you that sometimes you throw yourself out there like propellers
so I threw myself down like a launch-pad-made-for-landing-
not knowing anything about trajectory- hoping to show you
that there are some people out here who know the importance of landing whole.

You retreat to your smart phone, search Google, load a satellite image,
point to the smallest blue pixel, See that? You say.
That's Earth. Everything we will ever know happened on that dot.

I thought about Newt's completely feasible moon colony and the first moon-born human.
I thought about illegal aliens and inalienable rights.
But I didn't say anything.
We just sat there in perfect silence
like two ukuleles wanting to be acoustic guitars,
perfectly tuned, painted in moon reflection, I said, what are we doing?

And you didn't have to ask.
You knew. When I said we, I meant the species.