Upon being let out
onto this planet
that we are yet to name
I take in the thick petrichor
and the dizzy glow of a lavender sea.
Viscous waves lazily lick
the bone-white shore
as if begging for rest.

My legs, unhinged from gravity all these years,
feel too close to liquid.

We’re warned not to touch a thing.

Danger seems to hide in the form
of something beautiful;
it must be the same here.
Fluorescent critters
drawing ribbons in the air
inspire little excitement.
We all know this isn’t home
and these aren’t fireflies
and those aren’t fish
and those aren’t flowers.

No one gets married before going to space.
We didn’t promise to see each other again.
We shouldn’t touch things
we can’t keep.