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.