When I was a student in science class learning the nine planets
I used to imagine that Jupiter was in love with Saturn.
That's how I made sense of the rings.
Planetary engagement.
In every diagram they were always side by side
and so much larger than their counterparts.
Just like lovers with chests stuck out,
swelling from the size of the love they've got stuck in their ribcage.

We all know that couple.
Just rubbing it in.

That was Saturn and Jupiter. In my head.
As I imagined them. So big.
And vibrant.
And gay.

Until I learned about orbit.

Look, I just flew over the city of your residence.
If you looked up you might've seen me.
I'm going to pretend I saw you from here-
I'm still at this end of the telescope and you're still an astrological body.
In all my metaphors you're unearthed, capable of flight,
solar panel lighthouse, walks on moon water, astronaut trainer in training,
gentle giant with kite string hair, earthquake arms, and lunar eyes.
You always leave your light on.
At least for me. Even though we've learned to keep good distance.
Passing each other in the dark night of the solar system.

The wings of this plane are stronger than me.
Luckily.
Cause it was all I could do to keep from parachuting my way back into your sight-lines.

You know, there's a red spot on Jupiter the width of three Earths.
THREE EARTHS!
Scientists at the University of California, Berkeley, want us to believe
that it's actually an ancient monster storm.

I'm still not entirely convinced that it's not a broken heart.