When stars talk—by Andrew C.

I’m very grateful the stars cannot speak,
lest the night sky be painted with celestial poetry of you.
My conversations with them would bleed across the endless black expanse,
my words the driving force behind its never-ending growth.
What do you say to someone who can take your words
and put them on display for the universe to roll over its tongue,
like it’s taste-testing a bottle of Italian wine?
I’m grateful they cannot recite the words I have given them,
or the whole world would realize I am weak.
Weak in the way I can’t say no to you,
because acts of service are the love language of men who rant to stars.
Weak in the way your voice changes the state of matter inside my chest to liquid,
because words of affirmation are the love language of men who whisper secrets to planets.
Weak because the mere thought of holding you means I forfeit my right to breathe,
because physical touch is the love language of men who know what it’s like to remove sutures.
See what I mean, you’ve turned me monotonous,
and I’m sure the lights in our sky grow weary of hearing the same things every night.
I apologize to them after every therapy session,
I can only imagine how painful it must be not to feel as we do.
However, I am still grateful they cannot,
because I am a selfish man.
Thank you for not sharing how weak I am,
I would rather she hear it from my own lips.