You are not easy to love.
You arrive like a collapsing star, beautiful enough to study, dangerous enough to leave scars.
There is something violent in the way you exist, like gravity pulling planets from their place, like comets burning themselves apart just to be seen for a moment in space.
Not in ways most people understand.
It is quieter than that- like a black hole bending light without ever lifting a hand.
You speak like someone preparing for loss before love has even begun, like your heart learned long ago that warmth eventually becomes the sun- too close, too bright, too painful to hold, yet somehow still impossible to outrun.
You frighten me sometimes.
Not because you are cruel, but because I can feel the ruin in you.
The kind that hides beneath beauty the way dying stars do.
And unfortunately for me, that only makes me love you more.
Because I have always been drawn to celestial things that destroy themselves slowly, to galaxies collapsing inward while still looking holy.
Maybe something is wrong with me.
Maybe my heart was built to romanticize disaster, to mistake survival for devotion, to chase every beautiful thing moving just a little bit faster toward its own extinction.
But when I look at you, I do not see someone difficult to love.
I see a universe at war with itself, still managing to create light.
And somehow, against all reason, I still want to hold it through the night.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
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