I admit: I don’t know anything about space travel besides what I’ve seen in movies and read in Googled articles—which is to say I know nothing. But I imagine what it might feel like that first time breaking away from the unchallenged pull of earth’s gravity, being shuttled suddenly closer to the stars than any of my smallness can comprehend. How it must be like shrinking. How the moon must seem dreadfully foreign from a closer perspective. How the surface is probably more rugged and deathly than I could ever comprehend. How in this terrible deepness, the blackswallow would feel even wider, somehow more impossible to fill. As if everything up there was never as inviting as I’d hoped. Because I imagine the most desirable planets warp themselves further away from you the more you try to chase after them in your spaceship. And I bet the silence of it all must become so wide and unending that you could hide yourself in the skin of forever. And I simply mean to say that when you’re staring up at star patterns from a backyard in Northern California, and you’re at Amanda’s house party with old school Outkast grooving in the background, and you’re laughing the fullest laughs that your bones can hold, and Jerome and Andrew are nearby talking about the depths of the Pacific Ocean, and a white person walks up to tell you how strange and unforgettable the shades of the moon are, and they mention how it would be magic for us all to start over, up there, right in that moment, from that particular angle and with that uncrossable distance between you and your new dreammate, how you would probably look up and agree, that yes, it could be something special, to share ground and hold fantasies of faraway places that are somehow rounder, somehow more polished, somehow more perfect and livable and ready for us to inhabit and unfold, while knowing, in the deepest cabinet of your body, that when you actually arrive, you will inhale suffocation.