On Breaking up with the Moon

Look, it just isn’t working. After all, I am

a woman and you? You are a huge sphere

of rock, tracing an elliptical orbit through space.

We’re from different worlds. You circumvent the

earth at two-thousand, two hundred and eighty-eight

miles per hour, and I just can’t keep up

with you. You’ve been so distant lately, but

two-hundred and fifty thousand miles is distance

enough for anyone. And I know you are wonderful.

The nights we spent together were glorious. But when

I don’t see you for weeks of cloudy skies

I start to feel jealous of the stars. Let me start

again: I love the way you borrow the light of others

and reflect it back to them. You are so generous,

but we both know this isn’t going to pan out. Maybe

I just need some space. You can be so cold,

unforgiving, until I’m left wondering if there’s

life out there at all. Sometimes you overshadow

me until I feel eclipsed. And I’ll admit it: I’m a little

afraid of your dark side. And I wouldn’t say you’re

indecisive but you wax and wane so often,

I don’t know what you really want anymore.

People said you made them crazy but that’s not

true. It just takes patience to love you. I have lost

my patience. And it’s not about the craters or the clangers,

or the twelve men who shared your orbit

before I came along, but being compared to

them makes me feel inadequate. You don’t belong

to anyone, and every flag I try to plant is bleached blank

in the end. As if it never was. You starved me of oxygen, but

it wasn’t your fault. You were never mine,

and I should’ve known. So, this is goodbye. Take

care. Give my love to Ganymede. And keep my footprints

safe, I won’t be back this way again.

Lemonade Anemone