Synastry: The Understanding

Poem #2 in a series on love and astrological alignment

His soul is
Like a most gentle sluice
of lucid brook water
to soothe your wounds.
Like the dewy rain drops
that dribble into your arid throat
like revival.
Like the curious bluebird,
forever remaining on the fence as he chirps
his carefree melody.
Then he stops to listen readily
and share minimally.
A jolly idealist blurring the lines between
fantastic and realistic,
the swiftest sweep away from conflict
you nearly miss if you blink,
he avoids it like the plague.
A fastidious artist working hastily,
while taking frequent pauses
to daydream about
the blue moon.
His head-in-the-clouds disposition
is the most enamoring jigsaw
it makes you question your
disdain for puzzles.
He doesn’t pray to a God,
but he practices people pleasing
like a sacred religion.
They say there are plenty of fish in the sea,
but this one leapt up onto your burning shore
and you readily sprang toward the deep end
of his hidden whirlpool.
But you must learn patience.
He’ll keep you on his sparkling seafoam surface
as you wait to submerge yourself
into his cavernous depths.

Her soul is
Like a sprightly meteor gaining velocity as she
leaves you in dust.
Like an omniscient alien
who never cares to disguise
her extrinsic demeanor.
Another world brought to you through
electric green eyes,
Revealing a mass of kooky contradictions,
her oddity compels you to gravitate into
her space.
A bitingly blunt and accurate analyst
swirled around a hypnotically hypocritical
rotation of madness.
Her sins are written all over her body.
Still, she reads them aloud to you as she
beams with celestial pride,
shining more brilliant than a shooting star.
While remarkable,
her inordinate luminosity
often causes eye strain
and aching temples
for those who stare too long.
So she receives
surface-level appreciation
from many
but true acceptance
from few
because she’s never fit in
to any crowd
the way she snuggly fit in
to your arms
like a sense of belonging
she’s never known.
It’s foreign and frightening.
Fight, flight or freeze?
Her face set in stone
while her mind is on ecstasy.
… flight. always.
She fabricates
a cynical game of hide and seek
to test your psychic abilities.
Somedays she longs to wrap herself up
in your warmth
to thaw the iceblock in her chest.
Somedays the heat of your exhalation alone
is too hot.
Enough to smother her cool air.
She levitates back to space.
Count to ten but
never chase her.
The only way to capture this spiritual being is to
let her go
because she is first and foremost,
a free woman.
And when she feels freedom,
she latches on to it.

Hello! My name is Alexandria.I’m a freelance writer and advocate for victims of sexual violence. I frequently post on Medium as well as my WordPress blog (https://eternalmetamorphosis.art.blog) 

Eternal Metamorphosis is filled with raw and confessional journal entries about my recovery from trauma. My purpose is to help victims to feel empowered in the way that is unique to their journeys. I’m optimistic that my stories, and the stories of all survivors shared on my page, will broaden minds and encourage compassion, understanding and ACTION. 

Click the link below to check out my site and get involved ! Follow me on Instagram and Twitter @alexandriaroswick https://eternalmetamorphosis.art.blog

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