Age of the Water Bearer

From the beginning, you journeyed for a more favorable sign. Still, I adored the problem that was you, even as the trials became more than I could bear. I was challenged through my hope to divert your path to my constellation. In the end, I did myself no favors. The mythology of “us,” by way of oral tradition, remembers me reckless, elides the contradictions that passed your lips.

I lost my own course in chasing you, water bearer. You were immutable and animated by air, drawing oxygen from the lungs of nymphs. At times, I felt your equal. More often, you reminded me that I was not. You did not desire complementary angles; the shape you sought in the stars overlapped with yours, as if you needed some version of a her that reinforced your bones.

Even as the sun’s proximity to Venus predicted our lives would decouple more abruptly than the event of their crossing, I was unprepared for your absence. Devastated by loss and to lose. And I’m more sorry than your audience will ever know, both for myself and (as time goes on, less) for you. Because you see, I never wanted to fall in love.

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