the moon has terrible cafés –
the coffee tastes like burnt postcards
the syrup tastes faintly of batteries
and the eggs arrive folded into tiny origami boats
still, we go every morning

you sit across from me
wearing your new gravity,
stirring sugar into your cup

there are blue ketchup stains on the tablecloth –
continents from a country that collapsed politely
years ago

the waiter brings chewy bread
there is something holy
about difficult bread

I can’t remember if we’re divorced
or merely orbiting at a respectful distance

the moon jukebox only plays whale sounds
and a familiar song
that skips exactly before the word ‘’home’’

at the counter,
a child in silver boots
tries to pay for pancakes
with four beautiful rocks
the cook accepts them

this is why I love the moon
its economy is based entirely
on sentimentality and dust

you tell me Earth looked small last night
“it looked as small as a blue pill,” you say,
and butter another piece of bread
I nod as though I understand adulthood

through the window,
the dark opens forever in every direction
the kindest thing I’ve ever seen

the Earth looks to me like blue-green bacterial growth
with little foamy white republics multiplying in the dark

It is embarrassing to be alive this long

It is embarrassing to keep wanting breakfast