I never believed in Horoscopes.
Dots of light across the dark azure
arranged in shapes of dippers and bears
did not seem to have significance
of any magnitude.
Except for the loveliness of its look, of course
and an integral part of books-based romance.  

Until the daily correspondence (you subscribed for)
landed on our doorstep
right by the flower beds you planted
last sunday;
following the argument we had
over the cat I always wanted and you never did.

“What the Stars Foretell”
occupied the front page with its bold
letters and lies
predicting the unpredictable,
obviously stating the obvious
and vaguely describing the vague enough
meaning of our distorted lives.

As you sat on the ragged couch
every morning from nine to ten
flipping deceptive pages,
I seated myself in front of you
with a plate of freshly made omelette
and a beverage of some sort,  
observing your pupils running marathons
from left to right.

Every morning I gave thanks
to insignificant stars
for a chance to observe you
in your natural dreamy habitat.