The Skeptic’s Horoscope
I want to believe.
But my brain reads like Scully’s.
And so I ignore the red roses
pierced with Cupid’s arrows
or the cheap bottle of wine
(that I’d rather was a bottle of scotch).
Ironic that all these February horoscopes
promise you the Valentine’s love beat down.
Yet, I still dreamt of you
as the snow moon got weekend drunk.
For fuck’s sake, I cursed in my sleep,
feeling candy-heart cliché.
But you surprised me, as you always do,
looking all too real with your
goofy grin and childish hope in your eyes.
Love, I thought, from across the room.
I love you, you idiot.
I knew your hand would be sweaty when I held it.
I knew you would smell of warm dirt and apples.
I knew you would be still there when I woke up.
I knew that everything would be rainbows and daisies and
breakfasts in bed.
I knew we would always be strangers.
I knew I would sit next to you in painful silence.
I knew I would know regret.
I knew I would wake up alone.