Under the Septagram's red eye,
you named the stars like you name things
you're afraid to keep -
the Scroll, the Winged Lion,
the one that looks like a cake.

She gave honey to the hunger.
The sky into sweetness.
Neither said
what were actually doing.

Then a peck
and the world became a question
is there a right time to asking
I had feelings for you,
past tense,
the way you press a flower in a book -
preserved, but no longer growing.


Let them go
because both tangled elsewhere,
because timing is the cruelest architect,
because que sera serais both wisdom and surrender.

Now it is time for safety.
No flutter, admitted,
as if flutter were a small thing,
as if body counsel,
a minor inconvenience.


I lost my chance.
Tilted head.
Not confirmation.
Not denial.

Just the rain,
and sitting
in the dark between constellations,
both a little sad,
both still warm.


Wishes of happiness.
Held you with great ardour
and rode east into the night.

The flutter
was always there.
It just didn't know
whose name to call.

Que sera sera- sang it almost within
which is not the same as singing it to no one.


Penned by my hand on the 5th of Daedalan, in the year 1004 AF.