Apricot Press

Conflicting feelings always seem to find me, on the brink of October or May, sitting in the so-called garden of a shitty house party. Usually with the person who can be held responsible for these aforementioned feelings, liking me enough to lead me outside but not enough to sit with me beyond twenty minutes.

This evening feels no different. Just outside the sphere of dull, pounding music, we sit under the spring night sky. Summer being just within touching distance, and cheap gin, make the lukewarm air feel friendly as it envelops us gently. My focus drifts back and forth, from our hazy conversation to her dainty hands as she dusts the ash from her lit cigarette to the ground below. For all my pensive attention, I ignore most of our conversation to stare at the sky. The constellations above spell a pattern, one replicated in the veins of my body and my past. I like to think that Orion meets the Big Dipper somehow, somewhere, in my blood.

‘What’s your star sign?’

Her voice breaks the starry silence. Soft, moonshine blush flows in those words, even if I do roll my eyes slightly. She says she is an Aries sun and drops the remnants of her cigarette to the ground.

‘I’ll see you later.’

I hold my place on a list of options and failed successes, left again in the so-called garden of a shitty house party. The amber glow of the cigarette fades to black, and I watch as it melts to the shade of the moon’s home. Astrology now feels like a gentle yearning, complimenting my confliction. 

I choose to leave May as she left me.

Photo credit: Ciel