You make me believe that I am made of stardust.
That starlight is trapped behind the glossy spheres of my eyes.
That there are a million galaxies in the curve of my fingertips.
That a myriad of collapsing stars smatters my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose like freckles.
That my mind is a complex web of constellations, of which you have memorized every star.
You make me believe that I am a cosmic masterpiece, of both dark matter and light.
You make me believe that I am a celestial mystery, the Last Frontier, hiding so much among Suns and black holes and eclipses, and you were the only one who dared to look up.