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.
a surplus of boy drabbles.
