its around 10pm,
i lay in the back seat of my father's car,
my seatbelt is dangling between my feet,
like a knotted woollen scarf that was never finished.
reaching through the sunroof to hold the moon,
just for a second.
its craters are its centrepiece,
the stars are the tablecloth,
at this victorian dinner.
the moon is the chatty one,
i hear it reciting some physics formula i do not understand.
flirting behind barred doors,
we celebrate a future that never was met.
me the astronaut, and you the moon.
watching your luminous nature fill the room.
tip-toe into another lover's room.
you ask me,
who am i, if i am afraid?
becoming a wall within its solitude,
returning to the leather-based seats,
and the engine is the orchestra.
i again stare at the glass window
why am i sitting alone at this dinner-time party?