You study the stars on my arms,
blended constellations set in negative,
as though they could guide you
from your grinding teeth and furrowed brows,
to the final release and the following calm.
You have not asked a question of me.
I, therefore, have no answers for you.
The wheeling sky is paused, silent, skin.
I cannot lead you home,
though you searched my astrology and I, as we
hovered over your body. I am not, I never was
truly set with sky, infinite, omniscient.
I cannot divine the questions caught
behind your open mouth, closed throat.
I am human, and fickle, and finite.
There are no answers in me.