Photo by Viraj Bhalani on Unsplash

Years ago, under the warm breath of moonlight, 
I was informed that when you love somebody
you give them the moon. So I am doing what 
seems will give me the greatest possible happiness. 
Which are the words that Virginia Woolf wrote to her 
husband Leonard, in her fatal moment of loneliness, 
how it slithered into her body, as she donned the raincoat, 
the dress of death, and walked into the river, her body 
already weighing itself back down to Earth. 
Tonight, I go to buy a single ticket to the moon. 
Some nights are longer than others, some sides
of the moon darker than others. One side was 
only the presence of darkness, the other the stark 
absence of it. I wonder if an astronaut’s body threatens to float 
off, back into stasis, when it senses the Earth, or if it 
closes its mouth around the cold marble of green and blue, 
tamping down, and refuses to open again.
I am saying goodbye for the night and all the windows are closed
and nobody calls me lovable or soft-whiskered or anything
extraordinary. The man at the tollbooth looks at me strangely.
Who goes to the moon by themselves, is the unasked question. 
It is the loneliest thing I have done in a while.