We’re both air signs, I say, expecting you to laugh. You do.
I won’t tell you that I’m trying to find direction in fiction: I’m using meanings arbitrarily assigned to planetary alignments and the quadrants traveled by Mars to better understand your gravitational pull. Part of me wants to explain to you that the stars are more accurate than you’d believe. When our constellations cross paths, we feel a validation of self, an intellectual closeness that falls short in its warmth. I’m flexible and you’re rigid. This doesn’t interfere with your needs, and only displaces one of mine, because we both share the desire to remain independent, to honor the selves we salvaged, however broken. In our friendship and moments of intimacy, we form complementary angles within the spaces we don’t already overlap.
This is a little crazy, so I know better than to tell you that astrology is my latest comfort. For me, it’s always held a place in my heart and mind as my favorite pseudoscience. Horoscopes and the compatibility of signs are also the means of turning abstract thoughts into a narrative, at least lately. Don’t worry, though. Like most things that exist between us, it’s not serious. So I just smile (as I so often do when I hear you laugh). Because even if you don’t love me, afraid to be more than water in a woman’s hands, I can’t help but share in your joy.