Its not coincidence,

but harmonic unchained events

stocking tissue around a surface

rooted by subtle glow.

I love you, invisible

but appearing.

I feel you, cold

but brightening.

Its not lost if it still make sense,

showing every night

my own contour

painted white.

Your own contour is

a halo of stars.

I love you, sarcastic

but lovely.

I feel you, powerless

but inspiring.

Your own form is an embodied cell,

almost as large as existence.

But my body wont fit you,

as vague as a man,

dressed as an astronaut

waiting to die in your dust.