It was eight in the morning
when I woke up last,
the eighth time.
The thoughts pondering
along my thought stream
had been counting the
very things that
could have had the power
to wake me up.

One: Did I forget to lock the door?
Two: Maybe I forgot to turn off the stove.
Three: Did I say "goodnight" to you?
Four: Did you...never mind
Five: I'm kind of missing you right now.
Six: It's cold, where did my warmth go?
Seven: You're not here.
Eight: Your ******* zodiac sign.

Eight things that formed my brain into
the complex shape of an
octagon with little or no struggle.

Though the eighth thought
had given me all I've needed,
all I lacked,
and all I wish I never had.
But everything I never
want to let go.

Your ******* zodiac sign
you're *******
beautiful
on that scale from one to twelve.