Constellations

 

My fingers move like needle points, spun between the poles of

Clavicle and calves. Invisible lines of magnetism,

Your freckles are my guides. By nights these constellations, traced,

Become my map and sky: Polaris, and the star charts — a universe laid bare.

But no, you say, these aren’t just roads to spin a compass homeward bound.

Patterns after your mythologies: Look here! The car that drove us home,

Parked between your shoulder blades. And there, make out the cat

That used to stalk around the yard, immortalized over your ribs, his tail curled low.

Though I must go, I hopeful pray that shifting skies should realign,

So that however far I roam, you guide me back and show me home.

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Q: Aren’t you glad I didn’t say CELESTIAL BODIES? Gross. Oh and the  featured image is by Victor U.

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