Venus as a Boy

I

Here's another story: There's a boy who's really a star 

disguised as a boy.

Every time he breathes, 

he exhales stardust. It settles on your skin, 

in your hair, behind your eyelids. 

You're afraid to blink. Afraid to breathe. 

Afraid the slightest movement will dislodge 

this glittering evidence that he was here, 

that he was real, that you didn't imagine him.


II

The boy kisses like he's drowning and you're air. 

Like he's dying and you're life. 

Like he's a man in the desert and you're water. 

It's too much. It's not enough. 

You want to crawl inside his ribcage, 

nest between his lungs, feel his heart 

beating against your back. You think: 

This is how black holes are formed. 

This is how universes collapse.


III

In the end, the boy is just a boy. 

Flesh and blood and bone. 

He bleeds when he falls.

He cries when he's sad. 

But oh, how he shines. How he burns. 

You look at him and think: This is it. 

This is the moment the world turns. 

This is the point of no return. 

You take his hand. You step off the edge. 

You fall. You fly. You burst into flames. 

You become a new constellation.


IV.

Here's the truth: There's a boy who's just a boy, 

but he contains multitudes. He's stardust and skin cells, 

cosmic radiation and caffeine jitters. 

He's the big bang in human form, 

the universe learning to love itself. 

And you? You're the witness. The worshipper. 

The one who looks at him and sees 

everything that ever was, 

everything that will be. 

You're the one who whispers "Venus. Adonis. Mine."