Perfect Lovers

My local astrologer says shaky relationships won't last this transit. I lock my screen, my black mirrored

reflection wanting less of me looking for ways out. In the kitchen, he nestles in the warmest corner, 

lets me curl into his lap like a child. His beard is young. It smells like pine. I knew I liked boys but I never

thought I could let one hold me this way, that I would embrace those masculine branded scents, that I would dream of such things my mother wished for me. Capricorn season arches through time. Above our heads like a loom of starlight. When he gets up to wash the dishes, and I've not said a word, I don't doubt that he's grown. The beard. The cradle. The doing what helps. The gentle way he beckons, "I'm ready." Locking the door behind us, he takes my hand. I've not said a word.