Waxing Gibbous in Cancer

Cancer is the constellation of throwbacks; cancer is the container for old memories. Memories are just another word for the stories that made us. We are built block by block by our experiences. How we respond to external events matters, but ultimately we are the product of our past.

Here is prose.

The streets of Verona end where we begin. No one warned us that diamonds drag ring fingers to the ground—heavy hearts wrapped around delicate hands. Heavy hearts break with lightning and thunder. Locked our love away and threw the key into the murky stream. I drank from those rivers despite the fluoride. I drank from your hands and blocked my Pineal Gland. I almost forgot that I saw Christ in your eyes. You introduced yourself and I swear I heard you say your name was Jesus. We drank the Holy waters until we both got crucified.