The Sun loves the Moon so much
that he gives her his light.
Silvery adoration that overflows
and drips from her form.
A love from which the splotches
form stars.

She must steal sips of starlight;
have kissed the moon's pale cheek,
been blessed as one of her constellations,
because, she thinks,
not even Icarus must have been this enraptured by the sun,
or Orion the moon;
and if it meant burning,
she would throw everything into the feeling of fire in her chest,
flowers blooming in her lungs
all from just looking at her beloved.

I am but flesh and blood.
Like others, but not.
A unique togetherness:
Bones that break,
Eyes that see,
Teeth that bite,
But more than that as well.
I am also love and hate.
Like others, but still not.
Dreams to follow.
Fears that overwhelm.
Anxiety that consumes.
I am made of many things.
A constellation of different things.
And some shared things.
All of them me things.
My own universe of strangeness.
That will someday grow,
From flesh and blood to a galaxy.