a deferred love letter to pisces men
A cosmic post-mortem — from an Aries Sun who never learns (on purpose).
Since I once wrote Finding a Cure for Cancer (Men), this felt like an overdue love letter to another water sign. And since it’s Pisces season, well…
Cosmic Sushi subscribers are acutely aware of my ongoing joke about Pisces men. But with the preponderance of my subs being water signs — I love this actually — I’ve steadily pumped the brakes.
Why?
Because every time I insert a loving jab against the gilled gentlemen, I get a “wtf, Cosmic” clapback in the comments. Who knew every Pisces was on Substack?
And because I keep throwing chum in the water, it’s probably time I explain myself.
Let’s be crystalline.
I love Pisces. Nay, I adore Pisces.
And Pisces men love me too.
When we meet, a watery cycle begins — almost like a scene from The Blue Lagoon. Moonlight. Slow burn. Suspended time.
And yet.
It somehow ends more like I’ve been flushed down the world’s largest toilet.
I don’t really talk about it.
But it’s time.
Him: Always a Pisces Sun. Well-groomed. Tastefully dressed. Not flashy enough to grab my attention across the room — but quietly composed. He stands when I approach the table. Observant. Taking in more than I see.
Me: Aries Sun, Mercury, Venus. I arrive late like the second shot after a misfire. Apologizing profusely. Likely wearing black and something cut slightly too low.
I wish this were isolated, but it’s standard operating procedure in my life. The rush gives me anxiety. The anxiety gives me perspiration. It’s not him that makes me sweat — it’s my own self-defeating bullshit raising my temperature and incidentally giving me a dewy glow.
I think, Why can’t I ever f*&king be on time?
He thinks, I’m annoyed she’s late. But she’s got spunk. This could get interesting.
If he has Aries placements too, he’s intrigued.
The meeting ends with pleasantries and vague promises of “we should do this again.”
The second meeting is always “accidental.”
He hears through a mutual I’ll be somewhere. He magically appears.
He thinks I won’t notice.
My Aquarius Moon misses nothing.
I tease him. “Who invited you anyway?”
He smiles.
From there, a cadence forms. “We all should do this again.” A recurrence is suggested. Everyone agrees.
But somehow the others always cancel. Or leave early. Or run late.
And we find ourselves talking about everything and nothing. More me talking. Him listening. Laughing. Observing. Cocktails within arm’s reach.
Aries loves getting drunk. Pisces rules addictions.
Together, we are mutual destruction served in stemware.
At some point, he slips into my DMs.
It starts innocuously. “Text me when you get home safely.” “Thanks for putting up with me.”
Weeks later it’s, “You always have the best shoes.”
“What color is your toenail polish today?”
(Pisces rules the feet. And his memory is suspiciously specific.)
And what began as a light flirtation somehow cascades into something that feels like a meeting of souls.
Flowers on my windshield.
“I had a dream about you.”
“If we were ever married…”
And that’s when it shifts.
Aries wants to build or lay siege to empire.
Pisces wants to rule the Magic Kingdom.
And while my Aries Sun loves running the show, that future-tense language slows me mid-climb.
The flirtation (Aries), the safety (Cancer), the potential (Aquarius) — all activated.
Somehow I shift from Lara Croft to Betty Crocker.
Less dominatrix. More domesticated.
I start asking when I’ll see him again.
He says “soon.”
Loose plans are made.
When we meet again, I’m the one listening.
His dreams. His visions. His heartbreak.
My Aries Venus is a natural cheerleader. My Cancer rising and Mars? A nurse in triage. Let me heal you. You’ve got this.
He walks away stronger.
Over time:
Less talk about me.
Less talk about us.
Less talk about our dreams together.
I ask when I’ll see him again.
He says maybe next week.
My 29° Aries Venus begins to chase.
His avoidant tide begins to pull away.
Ah yes. The downward spiral. We know this dance.
The more I chase, the harder he swims.
The second I stop? It’s as if he feels the current shift and swims back toward shore. Back to me.
Never addressing the tension. Talking around it. Orbiting it.
Like tetherball wrapped around the pole.
Once untangled, the bell rings and recess is over.
And when I step back from the playground long enough to actually look at it, the pattern is obvious.
Pisces naturally falls into my solar 12th house — the part of my chart that rules unfinished business and the stuff I don’t see coming.
It always feels a little fated. A little unfinished. Like something we’ve done before and never quite closed out.
If his Aries placements hit my Aries South Node? It can feel karmic. Magnetic. Inevitable.
I will always love a Pisces.
But loving and building are not the same thing.
My Aries intensity intrigues them. My Cancerian care soothes them.
They will share a fishbowl at the bar for a while.
But some fish were always meant to swim upstream.
The Pisces man is not here to be my forever.
He is here to remind me to love my damned self.
To stop chasing what retreats.
To stop mistaking mystery for compatibility.
So can Aries and Pisces work?
Of course.
But only if both people understand their impulses.
Only if emotional needs are spoken early.
Only if fantasy doesn’t replace foundation.
Otherwise?
It’s just karmic theater.
Will I love a Pisces man again?
Of course.
I’ll never stop.
In fact, my dog is a Pisces male with an Aries Venus and Jupiter. We chase each other around the house every damned day.
And if anyone else wants to join him?
Well.
That’s a different story.