While she searches for the moon on her end,
We talk about television shows 
And I pace in the bed of a pickup truck on my end,
Under the same moon, just in different phases of light and life.

Where she begs to be found
By a man or a mysterious epiphany,
I bite my tongue about real worries,
The beauty of doldrums and drama and dandelions.

What she sees as loss,
I see as luxury –
The luxury of leaving worry at the door,
And every gorgeous rich gal is like this.

Whether it is Greenspur Lane or Miami Lakes,
Brooklyn, Venice Beach or beyond,
The moon and it’s gravity is relative…
Just like love, just like life, just like death.