Ink Stained Soul

To the Girl Who Thinks She's All That

You complain of his constant obsession with you, how he wakes before the sky to write millions of metaphors in desperate attempts to capture the joy that is your smile. Darling, I say this because I care, but for the sake of humanity I beg you, get over yourself. You speak for hours about the myths they proclaim about you, but where did those myths take root, and who watered them, I wonder.
You are no myth or miracle, my dear, you're simply a girl made of flesh and bone and marrow, not metaphors and excuses to explain away how you're merely a victim of society. And since you insist on ignorance, I feel the need to correct the obvious: the sky doesn't sleep.
Perhaps when he wakes from restless sleep at three fifteen, and climbs up to the roof to compare your eyes to the darkened sky, and your smile to the stained parts of the moon, it really has nothing to do with you. Maybe he uses you as a comparison for the sky, instead of the other way around, because it's the only way he can think of to communicate what he sees with people who look up and simply see a sleeping sky. Maybe the only way he can think of to describe how indescribably beautiful he finds the pockmarks in the moon is to compare them to the tooth you chipped when you were fifteen. Maybe just maybe, when he says your smile's the darker parts of the sky, he couldn't think of another way to capture the incognizable idea of universes existing beyond the expansive view of a telescope except to compare it to the moon, because everyone knows you hide multitudes the way the sky hides universes.
But my dear you are not a universe, the moon, the stars, or the sky itself. You are simply a flesh and bone girl who happened to catch the eye of a boy infatuated with the night sky.
How could you be so naive to long for nothing, but sunshine and blue skies?