the last pages of our notepads are reserved for secret words
requiring ciphers, mirrors, the alignment of celestial bodies to read
on sacred days.

I only write when our bodies are misaligned.
you. transient you.
I only write when our bodies are first aligned
and orbits are uncertain.
nothing, for so long, has influenced this motion
until you, incarnate fire
stretching ellipses.

the last pages of our notepads are filled with inkblots, horoscopes,
so we sift through equal parts mystery and nonsense
for meaning.
the lucky numbers are somewhere’s lottery, after all,
the outlook for Libra is sometimes spot on.
today’s reads, in cryptic prose,

“gravity took hold and has not let go any day you’ve known,
but maybe tomorrow
it will.”