GEMINI: The creases on your palms are valleys full of quicksand; your hands have sunken through my skin and into my bones. You opened your fists in mid-autumn and by mid-winter, our heart lines, our lifelines, had fused. Dear Pollux, sometimes I wonder how you could not know that
on those cold February nights, it is not puffs of air that escape your Cupid’s bow, but rather wisps of fetal star, swirling and curling up and up into new constellations—ones depicting Cleopatra and Antony Paris and Helen you and I.
The looking glass in my mother’s washroom no longer displays emerald orbs; they have been melted down from a solid to a liquid to a stacking, twirling vapor that I can no longer see, nor feel. But the thing about you, Dear Pollux, is that somehow, though it is beyond me how, you have captured her scalloping memory and turned everything to smoky quartz— you reflect the placidity I hope she found.
The sinkhole in my abdomen that mother dearest created has been gorged with your quicksand, and I am gluttonous for you. There’s a part of me that thinks you to be the eighth wonder of the world with your wide eyes and your slight dimples and your ability to generate earthquakes in my bones with a snap of your fingers. But Pollux, sweetheart, there’s a nagging suspicion I have that deems you to be the eighth deadly sin— your lips branding my neck; your hands burrowing through the flesh of my hips; the pearls you create from the grains of sand I carry. I oftentimes wonder how you figured out the secret of melting my amethyst crested core.
Your horoscope will tell you that you are wishy washy, but I will tell you that you are dynamic and paramount. You will be told that today “you must wrestle your past before communicating with your future,” and I shall roll my eyes and tell you that the only thing you must wrestle is my affection. Your fate is not in the stars, Pollux, darling; your fate has nothing to do with the Year of the Pig or the Gemini constellation that is so ruled by Mercury— the fortune tellers we made in elementary school were accurate representations of coincidence.
You will find your destiny in the palms of your hands and I will find my destiny within you.