Four days until new year. My words elude my pen, but I continue scribbling hollow with my fingers. I wonder when my fingers will falter. I wished to write away my woes but words-

that when I painted my journal prussian blue and celestialized it with constellations

that nightfall, his name was the first word i'd written in . with his name, i immortalized orion- and cassiopeia's fate

that , i marred the atoms of black ink morphed into quixotic and raphsodic embracing each other- a delicate sin

tell me, dear beloved me, 361 one days and 10000000000000000- words all about him, the wintery stardust whirling in his pulchritudenous orbes, the quiescent space song written on his cassiopeian tattood wrist, the saccharine wonders he creates, his celestial saber. him but never you

how would cassiopeia hold orion's with her caph if she is plighted to self loath? would she even reach out her , a battered steel, however marked with archaic sonnets?

where are you, dear beloved me?

"cafe au lait and hazelnut cake."

orion says; cassiopeia falters

among the latte and teaform white tables, an astral resides in the corner flecked with spacedust.

she is there, sketching words in , scribbling gracille celestine. she is there, donned in london grey, a black inked with grey cassiopeia (cassiopeia) veiling her eyes

she's there. tragically, not here.

her eyes resemble as i look close. the steam from the cafe au lait shrouds her orbes. her hand halts. her prussian blue , mirrors the night sky, lays supine. from the coup d'oeil of her astounding script, she seems like a

"cafe au lait and hazelnut cake."

her eyes look solemn, stunned, crestfallen // dear space, i cannot attribute a to those irises

"thank you but—

i can't pay."

"consider it a gift."

"i'm merely a customer."

"you're so much more

to this cafe."

quietude weaves between the

of two— what do i name us? we could be sirius— perhaps

"what is the constellation you fancy?"

"orion."

"the hunter."

"what— is yours?"

"cassiopeia."

there are golden moons on her eyelashes with whom she hides the silver starlight in her eyes. i've never been acquinted with such ethereality only

her prussian blue journal is with constellations in gold. i wonder about her hand ardently painting , the empyrean empress

"what does— the tattoo

on your— wrist means?"

i place my hand on the table, closer to her hand. i feel like i'm breathing in canorous , earthshine is capering over my skin. for no one has ever asked me that

"segin," i point at the ink, the star at the edge,

"my penchant for cassiopeia alone."

"ruchbah," my voice is a feathery whisper,

"this cafe. my cafe."

"navi, this seems crazy, but lattes."

"schedar is of people watching. people like me, watching frothy lattes paint beige joy in motley of eyes."

"caph," i halt, "caph is— empty."

"why?" her astral voice wavers

"i want someone to hold caph."

"would you hold caph?"