Restless

You've always known better. Always.

From the moment he asked you to dance, darkened eyes raking up your illuminated body, you knew all that was to come.

Discovery. A breath in your ear, inhale and exhale to who you really are. You love him and you detest him, want him to be better, momentarily think he is, but know he never will be.

Exhilaration and boredom, constantly aware that swords and pentacles are only two points out of five. Completion does not live here.

She is a hard woman, but she likes to dance at parties, and he can't decide if he's a knight or a king, still in process or complete. He's deception and dependability, made of marble and of mirrors. Is he stagnation or change, or change in stagnation, or stagnation in change? (No matter how I lay the cards, it just won't come clear.)

He speaks literature like a writer, though he refuses to read, and flirts like he's in his cups, though he indulges "only at parties." I can't decide what to do with this fellow, any more than he can decide what to do with me. (I guess, restless, it's all about the journey.)