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

to me

you shine the brightest.