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.