She's got stardust in her hair, and moonbeams in her eyes, while he's all rough edges, and storms he cannot disguise. She is made of silver light, of soft and sacred things, the kind of beauty that arrives on quiet, unseen wings. And he, he is weathered earth, old scars beneath his skin, a man who learned to bar the door and keep the darkness in. Yet somehow she found him. Not with thunder. Not with flame. But softly, the way dawn enters a room and nothing stays the same. She's got galaxies caught between her laugh and sigh, and every time she looks his way, another buried part can fly. She doesn't know what her presence stirs, how his pulse remembers her before a single word is heard. How every memory returns like waves against the shore, bringing back the pieces he thought he'd lost before. Because she reaches places he buried deep below, where all the tender things he hid were never meant to grow. And now her absence haunts him. The stars still linger in the memory of her hair. The moonlight still remains like a whispered, answered prayer. And he is left collecting the light she left behind, like a man who maps the heavens yet leaves himself confined. She's got stardust in her hair, and moonbeams in her eyes. And maybe that's why it aches, why silence feels so loud, why he searches empty skies through every passing cloud. Because he spent his whole life looking up above, never thinking heaven's light would feel so much like love. Never dreaming something so rare would settle in his heart and find a home there. And now he misses her with every fading star, like the night that keeps on reaching for a moon too far. She's got stardust in her hair, and moonbeams in her eyes, and he's left holding shadows, where once he held the skies.
Written by https://www.threads.com/@thriftygirl365
