By A Dead Star

From a simmering void of something less than nothingness, you came about. As it collapsed on itself over and over for a time longer than eternity, forming tiny fragments that would coalesce, in millions of permutations, and within each there was one, the perfect one.

Every part of you comes from that void. From those scattered fragments, with their randomness, that formed you, as if the conception of the universe was one giant conspiracy, an elaborate scheme only to get to you.

And even as your life is one little moment, one tiny droplet in an ever flowing river of time, yet your being is the embodiment of the universe itself. The perfect universe, with all its nebulas and clusters, with its supernovas, the birth of life and the death of stars and its little darks corners where even light dares not venture, I have seen that all and more in the depth of your iris.

Mi amor, how can you be anything other than beautiful, if the whole universe conspired to bring you here, in our grand plan, bring you to me. Bring you to me nourished by time, yet somehow untouched by it.

You are the living universe, itself, formed in some dying star, perhaps the last splendor of its spent undying beauty.

All your little curiosities, your tiny blemishes, your imperfections, lay them bare, for they are all you, all your intricacies, your delicacies; they are your everlasting perfection. Every little blotch is right where it is supposed to be, the dark under your eyes, the very curvature of your smile, the hair all messed up. Never was it a random occurrence, it was all meant to be, down to the very last freckle. It was always meant to be.

You are an art of the Maker, ma vhenan. Like the deep oceans, or the vast skies, like the burning stars, the sun and the serene sweetness of Selene. A wonder of nature, so very intricately put together for men to adore.

And with your voice your weave a spell, a mellow disturbance, like you know how to charm the air itself, and with which, all of it comes singing to life, just the right amount of chaos every time.

There are days still when I want nothing more than to roam around your porcelain skin, I feel a part of me came from those same fragments of a star that wants to be whole again.

To breathe you in like incense, a fading whiff, for once to drink the very madness that you are and that you bring.

To have my hot lingering breath fall upon the Goosebumps that erupt on the edges of your skin, so you are only real at places I feel.

For a moment, a spectral star come back to life, as I imprint you with my and mine.

So the etches I leave on the the curves of your neck, are nothing more than a painful reminder of a forgotten star that now lays dead.

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