I found this piece from a while ago.
To someone I used to know. To someone I loved (love?)
On Capricorns (he) and Scorpios (me)
Prose, it offers the protection of fantasy, it lets you build someone up in a house-of-cards of wishful thinking.
But in the end, I couldn’t wait any longer to find out if it was true. I forget to tell myself that we just didn’t work, as sad as it is. I wanted it, you wanted it. And now you’ve gone taciturn. I understand. I am sorry and I am not sorry.
I can still smell smoke from the burnt planks of our bridge.
Like the legendary, silent, earthy cowboy you’re strong and tough with a gentle heart as warm as a cozy fire on a winter night. Romantic is your inner nature, just that, inner. behind your conservative manner is the wolf who wants to run through moonlit fields, howling as you tumble through the tall grass. Even if those dreams don’t escape and run loose on your tongue to my ears, that’s just fine, for I find your dreams more colorful because no dream is as bright as the one that really happens. And they say with your kind, it’s like having dessert last, your romance ages like wine; you learn, you savor, and you shower with gifts and trips still into your 50s.
I know the thistles in my forest can be dangerous, but they grow entwined with the heavy, languid beauty of the sweet honeysuckle. You have braved the thistles for the gentleness, the explosive, deep passion of rich, dark red wine. To find the heart, a moonlit patch a warm embracing breeze.
Your forest is quiet, carpeted in soft moss and climbing ivy. Your coals build lasting fires.
