- Oh how I'd like there to be a phonebooth on the moon,
and then maybe I wouldn't feel so alone.
Maybe the blackness of space would become a quilt to keep me warm,
not a cold well of ink staining my mind.
I'd slip in a quarter, a penny or two, I'd twirl the phone cord as I listen to it ring, a faint melody of waiting and want,
all in hopes of reaching out through space to you.
My voice would be shakey and my hands would be weak.
I'd stare out at the planets, distant and aching, know that your arms are even farther away.
But there is no phonebooth on the moon.
An odd thought to be sure, yet I imagined the stars would make noise.
A happy sound of joy and sparks.
Or maybe one of sobs and cries.
They shimmer like tears and shine like a hot summers day.
In the darkness, they feel cold, but they're scalding with promise, a sizzling threat.
I'd tell you all this in more, rambling and bubbling, if there was a phonebooth on the moon, I'd call you my dear.
You'd be the second call I make, not last, not first.
There is an urgent message, unspoken but clear, I must speak to someone we both know we loathe.
The only person I'd talk to before the world's end, before I speak to you.
I'd jam in a quarter, a penny or two. I'd slam my fists on the glass and shout and scream.
I'd talk to myself, naive and strange, for I put myself on this moon, no one else to blame.
There's no one to save me, no lifeline to call, all because I wanted to walk on the planets,
To dance with the lights. In all my life I never thought I'd be ripped from you.
I was never scared of crashing, burning up in the atmosphere
Oh but I should've been, I should've stayed in your embrace.
For when I return I'll be lit ablaze, falling, falling, gracelessly crashing.
I'd scream and writhe with searing agony, a sea of fiery waves, turning to those stars I used to chase.
So I stay in my cradle, too scared to leave, to go back or move forward.
It's all the same.
What else can you do when you live on the moon?
I hate what I write but I'm trying to put myself out there so I can grow and improve, but goodness knows it's difficult. This is my first try at anything even related to poetry, and I don't read much poetry either so... if it sounds like someone playing a drumset made from pots and pans with a screeching monkey that's... that's probably why. :')
