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A Co-Star cento

Says he's tired of that brooding, old-soul shit

& what do the stars know about him, anyway?


I wait for the night sky

to stop eavesdropping


before I whisper, It’s okay, baby.

You’re not a Scorpio —


you're just a function of beginnings & endings.

You are infinite possibilities in space:


A carnivore with no special preference,

a masterpiece of tissue engineering.


You, my darling, are a smelly, rich, fertile life.

You're a pair of sneaky raccoons


& the secrets they've been keeping.

You might be a certain mode of organization around emptiness.


Or you are simply the space between

unconscious wanting & the capacity for joy.


& I think the moon would agree: yes, you are

a well-aimed mirror of unresolved desire.


Even now, she tells me you are

the probability of all the love you need.