If a stargazer falls for you,
every star and asterisk she finds
will bear your name.
She will trace the constellations
just to prove how the heavens
were drawn to resemble your jawline
If a traveler falls for you,
every road she takes will fold back on itself.
Her maps, her compass,
will betray her in the quietest way—
every route leading, inevitably,
to you
If a scientist falls for you,
she will build a formula out of fragments—
half logic, half longing—
so the reaction between you two
never reaches its half-life
If a musician falls for you,
your name will hum beneath her chords,
a refrain she can’t erase.
Even the birds, on the first day of spring,
will learn to sing it back to her
If an artist falls for you,
you will live in every canvas—
in the tilt of light against your face,
in the way your hand curls
mid-laughter, mid-silence,
mid-midnight conversation