Both hands open, you reach out for comfort from one end of yourself while the far end keeps the long memory of comfort withheld. Chiron and the Moon sit across the axis, each defining the other: your longing to be held swells, the old hurt insists no holding ever quite reached the place that needed it. Some days you give care lavishly just to feel less empty. Some days the ache shuts you off from being reached at all. Two shores, one feeling. No version of you that picks a side and stays will hold for long; the longing and the injury have to keep answering each other across the water, honestly, or the whole thing goes brittle.
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