I have been the moon tonight revolving around a planet I don't even know if I can ever return to.

It doesn’t matter that the moon is moving away from us three point eight centimeters a year, or that one day the sun will swallow us whole and every single thing we love about our tiny speck-of-dust planet will be reduced to ash. They’ll say, “The sun loved the inner planets so much, she consumed them.”

It’s almost romantic, our fate.

Mars will bow his head in shame at not being chosen, but he’ll bear the scars from her radiance like medals. The outer planets won’t be able to tell a difference - they’re used to the sun’s cold shoulder.

But still, none of this matters. Because the moon is still close enough to reach out and take between your fingers, still close enough to hold it in your palm like a quarter and that’s twenty-five cents worth of love, right there in the sky for anyone to take.

You can buy love. It’s just going to cost you the moon.