Moon dust stuck in my blood stream

Yesterday he gave his homecoming talk 

and his mother couldn't stop crying. 

I'm talking faucets on full blast. 

All the while I sat on the hard chairs in the back, 

keeping my head down. 

Thinking of the those moments. 

You know the moments, the ones you think would define you. 

And it's funny. 

Everyone couldn't take their eyes off of him,

When I could barely get my eyes to look up. 

He's changes yeah, of course, 

obviously. 

But so has my blood supply. 

It doesn't flood with the same kind of blood that 

spreads everywhere reaching for anything to thrive on. 

It circulates something else. 

The kind of circulation that makes your hands cold all the time. 

You wouldn't guess that there's depth to these shaky hands. 

Or depth in these eyes. 

But it's there. 

And for months now

 I've learned how to see the rawness in people. 

The music. 

But now looking at him,

 I just see mirrors for a face. 

Showing back the hidden weaknesses inked on my skin. 

The kind of ink no tattoo artist can ever erase. 

Stained skin. 

You'd think with all the years past we'd be walking on the moon. 

And the constellations would be saying what only our hearts could.  

And they'd scoff at how we described the sun from up there. 

And people would say we were just kids being kids, 

but I'd stand there and laugh 

because they would have no idea what it's like to be up that high. 

So high that you'd do it again if you could. 

Helmet or no helmet. 

Because all you want to do is remember that feeling.  

Remember what it was like adjusting to the gravity change

Barely feeling your body.

Barely hearing a heart beat. 

What it was like to risk oxygen. 

But you keep telling me your lungs are bad, and your feet seem pretty determined to stay on the ground. 

Maybe some day i'll make the trip.

On my own.