Even without understanding astrology, I would try to write about how the freckles on your body form a constellation that calls me by name. How can a living person haunt me so much? I've made you my entire sky, and the sky of your mouth is the only place where gravity still makes sense. And even if I write incessantly, until my hand falls off, there wouldn't be a word capable of crossing the ocean of thoughts that drowns me every time I remember you exist. I'm terribly jealous of anyone who looks at you, but I find some solace in knowing that none of them see you. I don't know how to read the sky, but I know how enchanted you are by the full moon, while I get lost in the craters of your spirit, in the eclipses of your soul, in the corners where even the moon hides. You are the sun and I am the planet that forgot how to stop orbiting you. My world spins, and you are the one who still defines the axis. And for all intents and purposes, you are my sweetie from the bakery 💜 (author unknown)