in space, and the thing that wasn’t you yet

hurtled into my sky untethered by forces

that (I thought) we all obeyed.

After impact, your shards regrouped,

became your gorgeous face, looming

so close to my verdant body, held

by my gravity, as I taught you

how the universe worked, how to

bow to the Sun, even as you churned

with lava, radiation, a volatile satellite.

You were just 14,000 miles away.

So close, I could always feel your breath

across my blue/green shoulder.

You made me dizzy as I spun,

my days lasting just five hours.

Over the years, I have watched

as my relentless tides pushed you

farther into the deep–imperceptible

at first, as your surface became

more calm, more desert-like.

Already you are nearly 250,000 miles away.

But ours is a longer measure

and I can’t help but imagine

how it will be when you finally

break free of me.

When it’s done, I will teeter, wobbling in space,

my seasons careening from summer to winter

in hours or days. My tides will be unhinged,

and for lack of you, everything I’ve built

over all these long millenia

will be dust and ash once more.