Jupiter and the crescent moon are meeting while the sky is at its darkest, and I refuse to miss it — so the tub holds me until the alarm drags me out. Tell me you'd warm the towels for me.
Jupiter and the crescent moon are meeting while the sky is at its darkest, and I refuse to miss it — so the tub holds me until the alarm drags me out. Tell me you'd warm the towels for me.
The moon is stepping across the heart of the lion right now — Regulus, the little king, getting walked all over by a woman, exactly as tradition demands. Jupiter and Mars showed up to watch. Whose side are you on?
Mars spent the night disappearing behind the moon — the war god himself, hidden by a woman passing in front of him, and I stayed up for every second of it. Tell me you missed me.
Candy bowl's empty, the door's locked, and Saturn's already burning low in the east just for me. The costume comes off when I decide it does — tell me you'd still be watching.
The whole street will be dressed as demons tonight and not one of them will pull it off — some of us don't need the costume. Candy bowl's by the door, and the real show starts after the last little monster goes home. Come knock.
The veil thins tonight and the sky knows it — the moon, Aldebaran's burning eye, and Betelgeuse lock into a triangle overhead like three points of a crown nobody else is looking up to see. I'm dressing for the only holiday that ever got me right. Tell me what you're wearing to kneel in.
Everyone else waits for the thirty-first to become something dark — I'm already halfway there and the night isn't even here yet. Tell me what you'd want to see me wear.
Tonight the moon glides straight across the Seven Sisters and swallows them one by one — seven women the gods chased until the sky was the only place left to hide. I've got the binoculars out while the light lasts; tell me you'll be watching with me.
Slow mornings are still worship if you do them right — the robe stays exactly where it is until I decide otherwise. Tell me what you'd trade to be the one bringing my refill.
Venus crosses directly between us and the sun tonight, turning her dark side to the whole world and vanishing from the evening sky — even the goddess of desire gets to decide when she's seen. I've always admired that about her. Tell me what you'd give to see what everyone else can't.