The Signs in Stars

(for E.)

There are certain stories alive in me. Certain legends. I will know forever the sky is blue, and that your hair is black and curly. You are to me what Heathcliff was to Cathy. You haunt me and all my waking hours, you are inseparable from my being. I think when I die people will know the story of my burning enduring love for you. You are my Sylvia's Ted, my Dory's Andre, you are the Paolo to my Francesca. I wake in the morning reaching for you, I go to bed at night longing to feel your flesh against mine under the covers. You are everything to me that is soft, free, young, beautiful, right, and quietly maddening. I will seek your lips and hands and face to the grave. I am tormented by the mere sound of your first name, its terrible lovely musical breath, its horrible promise of ultimate happiness and fulfillment. I adore and worship your every thought, breath, whim, and idea, every ounce of caring and passion and rage in you. Nothing within you could ever be anything but perfect and divine and heartbreakingly unforgettable. Still, a thousand times a day, I stop in wonderment, and realize you are human like me, that you breathe and take in air, that you dream and grow frustrated and perhaps watch the stars at night for signs and answers like I do. Only three words are at my disposal when it comes to you, and how pitifully they lack and fail. They can never be enough, like the thousand precious parts of your soul are to mine. But for lack of better words, I love you. I love you. I love you.