Yours is a name that I want to write but can never be written.
Simply because the stars have written it a long time ago
across that vast black paper called the night sky-
Where you become the perfection resulting from my imperfections.
It is where you belong, where you will stay from womb to tomb.
And I, rooted to the ground reaching out to you, calling you.
Can you even hear me?
You are the night itself- bigger than the reality I made for myself I call life.
What am I but a multitude of blank spaces in between that horrible theory they call love.
And that love disfigured me into something I barely recognize-
a poor lonely villain.
But just a glimpse of you, I had the vision of a night sky flooded with stars- the same ones which have written your name, a long time ago.
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