If moons aren’t planets
But magma satellites
And each lunar month
A new one’s guaranteed,
Why are we on your couch
Watching ancient episodes
Of FRIENDS?
 
The surface is eroding
And the satellite is porous
Your arms wrapped around
Me fantasizing them off.
When I type “L” in your
Facebook she appears
Dim but lit.
 
In every satellite control
Room, every night are
Optus engineers playing
Tetris and waiting for
Something to go wrong
So they can recalibrate
Or run.
 
Engineers are not responsible
For direct, indirect, special,
Incidental, exquisite, empty,
Atonement.
They cannot control
Third party risks like
My feelings.
 
What if we were actually
Just two moons orbiting
Each other, in awkward
Circumgyrations πŸ˜‰ ?
Trust me: your new
Moon will be kinder.
She’ll find me
Fading under “E”.