eulogy for venus retrograde
sometimes darkness is so, so clear you almost mistake it for a nectar. a sweetness, tangy even, something swallowed in between boot crunches, saint laurent on saint-laurent, like you could ever afford to pay for something you already owned in a past life. leaving a cemetery in your seventh house, lines in your jowls, scratchy throat from hibiscus smoke. the glow of the gray bubble, unanswered. he won’t wipe you off his chin on purpose. nothing ever felt quite like it did when he resurrected your father from the dead. and in the quiet, in the blue, you needed winter to divorce yourself and make amends, slowly, first with a phone call and gradually working your way up to sunday lunch with the kids. you had never met a november quite like him before.