A door stands half open between your tenderness and the feeling you keep boxed away. The Moon and the Black Moon hold a sextile, so your care and the emotion you refused to disown both sit within reach, waiting to be picked up toward a heart that does not edit itself to be kept. No body bestows softness on you. The calculated apogee simply leaves an angle within reach for you to gather. The day you let the untamed feeling inform how you love instead of muffling it, the thing lights and your warmth stops asking permission first. The resource is there, never handed over. It wakes when you stop treating the exiled emotion as the thing to hide.
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