I cannot identify stars
Or constellations,
But I can make a shape
Make a something
Out of anything
You put in front of me.

But as for the constellation Virgo,
There is a star known as a Spica,
Sixteenth brightest star in the sky,
Brightest in its' constellation.
And despite all that I've read,
And despite all my hopes and dreams,
This is a star,
I thought I would never get to see.

Because stars are not meant to be seen
And kept.
Rather held in our hearts
Like secret memories
To remind us of homes
We've never had.

And trust me,
I can tell you all about homes
I've never had.

But I don't want to,
Not today.

I want to tell you about a Virgo,
Born under Spica,
In the ruling house of Mercury,
And all the love I carry in my heart for him,
And how my whole body aches to be held by him,
And my skin shivers in wait of his touch,
And how much my heart shudders and aches
For his presence and being
To be close to mine.