She traces constellations in the dim,
fingers gliding over star maps,
while the moon leans in,
a spectator in the ink-black sky.
On those Tuesday nights,
when her laughter erupts like meteor showers,
and your gaze follows the trail of her joy,
as if chasing comet dust across a velvet field.
In the soft glow of the waning moon,
your hands entwine,
like two vines spiraling around the same tree,
each leaf whispering secrets of the cosmos.
She hums melodies of the Milky Way,
and you listen,
eyes tracing the arc of a distant galaxy,
where dreams drift like stardust,
settling on the curve of her smile.
Each night, you build constellations with her,
connecting stars with invisible threads,
sketching the story of your hearts
across the endless expanse of the night,
a cosmic dance in the quiet dark.
In the vastness of the universe,
her laughter is a nova,
bright and fleeting,
her touch a supernova’s pulse,
burning through the void between you.
Together, you navigate the celestial sea,
where love’s gravity pulls at your souls,
anchoring them in a tender orbit,
forever adrift in the constellation of your shared sky.