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.