I’d craft you a poem, yet words may fall short,
To capture the joy, the laughter, the rapport.
The very essence of what sets you apart,
The moment we met, the joy in my heart.

Instead, gaze upon the night's starlit design,
Connect the dots, the constellations align.
A grand spectacle, yet a void unseen,
A tapestry incomplete, until you intervened.

Stand amidst the cosmos, in lunar glow,
The missing piece, the truth starts to show.
By now, you must surely know,
How your presence completes this poem I bestow.

i hate how you're so utterly perfect
i wonder if other people also notice it
how your scattered freckles mimic the stars
little dipper's tail has made home by your lips

i hate your contagious smile, that look in your eyes
for your perfect boyfriend and his indie rock band
i am no longer myself; i am hopelessly tossing coins
and wishing to hold a constellation in my hand

I made a list of caveats
For the designs you constructed,
From thoughts in my mind
And for one, you know me too closely
It is too frightening
The way you find constellations
In broken skies
And propriety from my colouring
Outside the lines
Then, within my bones, too unstructured,
You found the sun in their moonlight complexion
And you confess your secrets
That these letters and conversations we’ve exchanged
Hang in a gallery in your head

Etched sentiments
And faded drawings of everything resolute

They say I am the girl of luck; tossing coins as if I am expecting everything as I plan, shifting cards as my thoughts are paid by the seven hearts.

We couldn't define luck as we wait in a grocery line or is it just because of our lucky stars traced into constellations, that the universe ruled every inch of our existence.

I was wondering if I could bet for another star and wish it would be you.

There is another thing that the sky is covering up to, parallels are invisible strings that connect us.

You are a myth that the muses talk about,
they tell me how far the stars
that I wouldn't reach you
and how I wander my hands on my brokenness.
It was the traces of how beautiful the blue in your eyes
and the memories of red lanterns
lighting up our way home,
I feel the terror of we might forget
the sound of the eerie cold night.

Parallels are constellations in the skies as if we are remnants of history,
Each night we wished we exist.

I know, there is no place for a fickle people like me
who painted their thorns beautifully to feel the comfort of no turning back.

And the only thing I remember is the wild wood where I tracing each constellations and searching for your footsteps.

she wanted to paint over
the marks on her face
to create a blank canvas
so their eyes would not
drill holes into her pores.
but before she could paint,
two arms wrapped around her,
slowly turning her around.
her eyes were downcast
as he kissed her every mark.
"I love your constellations.
Please don't hide them,"
he gently whispered.
she pulled him closer,
leaning back onto the counter.
the brush fell to the ground
as they savored their sweet love.