Don’t you ever say
you are not beautiful
when every night you look at the sky
and comment on how lovely the stars are.
Look in the mirror because
I’ve never had to dream of space
when I’ve been next to you.
You are cosmic.
You are born from the greatest nebula.
You are made from the most dazzling dust,
and constellations beg to crawl across your skin.
Your eyes are swimming galaxies
and I can’t fight their gravity.
The rest of us are just simple planets tripping over ourselves
to remain in your orbit,
craving your warmth.
They say stars are created in the coldest, harshest temperatures,
and I know you’ve been hurt before.
And I know it’s macabre but I still wish
I could lend you my eyes so you could
see what I see, because
you shine the brightest.