i won’t call you the sun.
you don’t hurt my eyes,
or blind me with your light.
you shine spectacularly,
but in a gentler sense—
like cherry blossoms,
ornamental in essence,
never promising sweet fruit
even if i help you grow.
but i don't expect any really,
i just want to admire your beauty
from the shadow you provide.

you’re not the moon, either.
you don’t need to borrow light—
you burn bright on your own.
your dark spots
don’t define your beauty;
your talent, your smile,
your infectious laugh,
your thoughts and care
outshine any flaws—
though honestly,
i don’t see any at all.

you are the nebulae.
beautiful and multicolored,
more than the eye can see,
more than the mind can reach.
you carry galaxies in your eyes—
light green and yellow-brown,
like forests and deserts,
the beauty of the earth
and the wonder of the universe
meeting in one gaze.

you are the stars.
seemingly small,
yet impossibly immense;
seemingly rare,
yet impossibly dense.
the only star i look at
like a sailor looks at the north star—
an essential on the sea,
guiding him home.

you are the mystery
that makes me trace lines in the sky,
connecting dots,
trying to find meaning
in what’s before me.
i want to understand you,
but you are so beautifully complex.
i used to think i was smart,
but you make me want to be better.
you are poetry—
the kind i cannot fully understand,
the kind with a thousand meanings,
and none i can settle on.