To Collocate The Stars

two

Limerence

To be in love is to be blind,
oblivious
to the mistakes of the aforementioned romantic interest.
You can see nothing
but perfection,
they can do no wrong in your eyes,
but that's fine,
for they see you in the same light.

Colors are brighter,
in fact,
they sting to look at, so you
divert your attention back to that person
that completes you,
the one shrouded in a translucent veil, protecting
your eyes from the color
woven into the very fibers of their heart.
Eventually, you will pick
a hole in the protective layer covering that one person,
and a tiny, but burning brightness will spring forth
and rip away at the ozone around them,
exposing a blistering light
that stabilizes you, paralyzes you,
fills
you with fear
and joy,
a light that sears
your retinas out of your
fragile skull and turns your brains to mush.

For that's when your
heart takes over--
no, not that blood-sack
of tissue and muscle that pumps
life into your body--
I mean
the heart that lives inside your entire body,
the one who's existence courses through
your soul's veins
intermixed with liquified grace and
long-forgotten purity,
your entire body engulfed
by blue and orange and grape-green
flames,
just because you dared
to peel back that particularly
lovely person's wallpaper and take a peek
at their interior.

Though you try to know them like you
know yourself, it is impossible,
for you will only see
what they want you to,
they know you will beg and
plead,
and you will
try to pick the lock on the chest
that holds the entirety of that person
inside,
just beyond your reach, close enough to give you a buzz, but not quite close
enough to shock you out
of existence.

Even you know that persistence
is futile
because no matter if you
stack up
every book in the world and
climb to the top, no matter
if you stand on the
tips of your toes,
you will never reach the
stars
in their eyes.
The stars that
will hang there until
they explode,
and rain down dust upon your head,
showering you in
a piece of themselves.