You have the luck of the Irish—
Life grants your every wish.

Balanced, always landing on your feet.
Jupiter-kissed, earthed on a Thursday.
Warm as a summer Sunday,
With a sprinkle of cool, sharp wit.

A soul prone to rumination,
A trait you don’t hide— you admit.

Perhaps your moon aligning with my sun
Is why you left me such an impression.
Am I enlisting your perks,
or writing a confession?

I can’t seem to find the words
for how your eyes squint when you smile—
to you, a quirk of genetic design,
to me, a proof, a striking sign:

Lady Luck herself,
has finally taken my side!