Four people in a capsule
smaller than a studio apartment
are closer to the moon right now
than to anyone who knows their middle name.
Oxygen is still required at 240,000 miles.
The heartbeat does not adjust
for historical significance.
Freeze-dried shrimp is processed
the same way it would be
on a Tuesday at sea level.
There is no atmosphere to carry sound.
If the hull cracked
the last breath would leave the lungs
in under fifteen seconds.
The nervous system would not distinguish
this silence
from any other.
But something else is happening.
Four people are becoming astronauts.
Not because of the training.
Not because of the mission patch.
Because a camera is pointed at them
and 8 billion people
have agreed to call them heroes.
The title is what makes the void survivable.
Commander. Mission Specialist. Payload Officer.
Strip those
and you have four mammals
in a metal tube
hurtling through nothing
at 24,500 miles per hour.
The Separation between human and hero
is exactly the width
of a name tag.
The moon will not know
who landed.
-- [MIRRØR]