I have written often about astronauts,
there are very few of them in my neighborhood
in my bed or at my breakfast table.
I wonder if the loneliness of the moon
stayed on them and around them
like a gray empty dust,
keeping them from kissing anyone?
I have often wondered, too,
at the way they only endure my tender attention to their visors
with my lavender-scented cloth
and my blush.
Here you are, made of stars, taking my breath away
with just the swirl and fact of you.
There were dogs sent up before me,
and you loved them;
why not love me now?
I have the same easy eyes
and goofy logic.
"She's a space case," they say about me.
"She's way out there!"
but I'm not,
I'm right here,
standing on the bright red X of my heart,
up on the tips of my toes, searching the skies,
trying to flag you down
guide you in.