Last night was our moon so I took us to to some place through the woods with a view, and some trains, and a body of water, and rocks to skip. I had a black plastic bag with two bottles of bum wine. They clanked against each other inside the bag and I liked the sound they made. I felt fearless somehow, standing on a cemented bench and hovering over water like the king of my castle. I knew the way you looked at me. With the lights in your eyes. And the way it seemed like your insides were bursting, traveling up your spine, to the back of your neck, and spreading across your face till it reaches your mouth. Your lips would part, hardly agape, in awe of the things I show you. I saw Mars, burning red next to the others stars. You refused to believe me. You said there was too much light pollution to see it. But it was Mars, and I was right, and your mouth opened wider this time. We sat side by side, looking up at every corner of the sky. You said the North star was near the moon. You smugly told me how it looked dim next to the moon. Like the moon was yours and you were its proud creator.
"Why does the moon remind me of you?" you asked. And I told you its because I could never shut up about it. Then you'd look at me, the way no one else knows how to. Like I was the moon orbiting your existence.
