And so we, the underwhelmed,
ask you to join our charade.
Sounds like (ointment)
The thought of it shudders through our excuses like the
nothing-promises we made.
I lay my head down
and acknowledge our shortcomings by
citing astrological refuse. Because it
couldnít be you, or me, or us, or them
but only fate and the fault of those Gods
we donít acknowledge.
You, ever the Gemini you were born
and absent, my mind rebuilds you
every time from the newspaper clipping
of your disposition.
And so I, the cancer,
let my fears meet my hopes halfway
and linger in obscurity,
forever waiting for
to match yours.