The distant sun rises, the size of a dime.
Red light looks warm but is cold, the opposite of what I know.
What can’t be unknown: encrypted DNA, curling inside me.
What I google: Orbit: 29 years, 167 days. Rotation: 10.233 hours.
Dizzy days and sleepless nights – elongated years.
I’ve forgotten the outline of my body against you
how I’d reach across your warmth to the nightstand for water.
I am an untethered moon, unloosed from the sun.
Now is no time to panic: remember Sherlock Holmes.
He discards the superfluous, keeps room for important truths.
Human contact is what I’m lacking, so far from home.
Can you see me on the cloud deck, waving my arms?
I’m calling out for connection, any Watson will do:
It’s elementary, my dear; come here. I need you.
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