You are not a calm sky,
nor a still sea.
You are the crackle of lightning
in the bones of a midnight storm,
the wildfire kiss of galaxies colliding
without apology.
You do not walk you blaze.
Each step a constellation scattering,
each breath a comets scream through silence.
And yet, to me,
you are not chaos.
You are motion made divine.
The world calls you unruly,
untamed,
but I have seen the rhythm beneath your riot.
I have watched you sculpt beauty from ruin,
turn ash into laughter,
turn thunder into lullabies.
You are the poem the universe wrote
when it stopped pretending to be orderly,
and finally let its heart speak.
Your spirit is a prism
fracturing light into something truer,
something more whole.
And I? I am merely grateful
to stand in your stormshadow.
You love like stars fall
uncontrolled,
brilliant,
and always exactly when the night needs them most.
So rage, love.
Spin wild through the galaxies.
Break things if you must.
Because I will always find you
in the afterglow,
in the quiet between stars,
in the center of every beautiful mess
the cosmos ever dared to make.