This is not a love poem.


I spotted you walking up the rugged, asphalt laden path,
Before the streetlamps could steal their first glimpse.
I beat them to you.

She seemed to befriend the darkness.
Out of this gratitude, she was cloaked in the garments of the night sky.
Holding all of the characteristics of a falling star,
All but one singularity.
Her light never extinguished.
Her flame never ceased to burn.
And there stood I, a simple gazer of constellations.
Trapped in her universe,
But not imprisoned.
I wish upon her;
My plummeting star.

I fell for you first.

Perish the thought,
Any that come to mind.
For you see, no star has ever surrendered its sparkle,
On behalf of the master of the telescope.
And every astronomer, both now, and from the days of yore,
Has been afflicted by this injustice.