There’s no entry for teacup,
just a page break
between ‘Tea’
and ‘Teapot’
with the warning
that partaking
brings about little good.
You sit there,
in the blank spot,
hands laid over mine
as we pass mug
from here to there,
oblivious to the noose
in the words
above us.
You had little truck
with hocum
and the sorts.
Spun horoscopes
to confetti,
threw them out
like bones onto dust
where I read them wrong
despite closing my eyes
even as they landed.
Odds in your favor
always,
not mine.
I still trace my palms
for hints of you,
a branch of my lifeline
strung out
across my wrist
in line with a pulse
still beating
past an end.
You are not there,
nor during the night
despite the dot to dot
of new constelations
each time the day dies
and I dream of stars
in someone else’s sky.
The omens are none,
which could be bad
or maybe good.
I’m relying on books
that don’t hold
these sort of answers.
Beautiful work, and your readings are getting better and better (more comfortable with it?).
Possibly. I’m debating looking into getting a proper microphone instead of doing it on my phone.
Definitely a thought piece. I like the disparate parts strung together by prognostications and a lack of fortunate telling. A bittersweet cup of tea indeed.
This is terrific. I love the imagery. “Spun horoscopes to confetti…” is excellent.