Or also, a phase people go through. The wrong side of thirty, and all. Time and tide wait for, wait for. They call you my intended as if you were a destination. And it doesn't feel like a straight line, on some days it does, on others it's an arc towards and around you, through the warmth of your atmosphere, nearing the pull of your gentle gravity. Can't wait to move in, spend more than half my days. Half-way through this half-life. No rings, you said. Too traditional. A downer. Saturnine. My head still spins. Closing the loop. The dark side you claim I haven't seen. I want to write my vows on your skin with my finger. Vows are vectors, marks on sand only temporal evidence. Down to earth, they say it makes you. How does this reconcile with the unbearable lightness of up, up and away? But not yet, not yet. My feet haven't touched the ground, nor have they left the lander. It's a big step, but we'll take it together.