Every love is the best love, until they are not.
But my mind has a funny way of thinking his horoscope pairs nicely with my morning coffee.
If you don’t believe me, ask the sun.
How she begs at every dawn for him to pluck her out of the sky, and hold her in his hands, just so she can get a closer look.
How often do I find myself reaching in your direction, knowing that my hands will never know the spaces between your fingers again.
It’s the same way a spider’s life falls into a human’s hands the moment they discover each other.
The same way a ladybug trusts fingertips to show it the fresh air on the other side of a window.
Knowing there is another side, but not knowing which is best.
To stay in a destructive familiarity, or find out what happens if we escape.