While I continue to piece together the tarot story for presentation as one solid entry… a poetic interlude…

classified prophecy

his sheets smell like my soap.
and a bit like her hair.
every time i turn my head
a new sense arises.
because five are hardly enough;
we will never commit to anything
more than a bite’s imprint
on my lower lip. bed time stories
telling about the one who got away.
released to discover
an unforeseen parachute.
slow sky drifting. our we. beneath
dimly lit 3ams. again and again
his shallow breath makes me
promises in the dark.
me. telling him what i usually say.
while he keeps everything away
we interpret each others’ addictions
surfaced in the stories we know
the other one would never believe.
no one
could ever
predict.