My moons

I'm not a young girl and you're not a married, much older lover. We know how the meaning can slip away the minute we turn around and we've got nothing but the frogs, the cicadas, the awful music from bars for young girls and young boys. You point out Saturn. I'm closer to Jupiter because you once showed me her four moons. When we hold each other tight we hang on to the yes once given, to a meaning we need for the morning to come. We know too much. That we know as well. Yet your kiss is still one of my moons.