I have come to the conclusion that he must have been mistaken for the sun. To the theory that his eyes must have been made from the remains of the shattered moon and perhaps that's why gravity draws me to them.

His gaze is blinding, captivating, mesmerizing, and by god, sinfully hypnotizing. Consequently, my thoughts become lost in translation and dissolve into the few words that I sputter at a pathetic attempt to compare something inhuman to the wretched stars.

I cannot pinpoint the exact location of my heart, but I'm aware that it must be somewhere within his grasp. And yet I cannot comprehend how he manages to fill this gaping emptiness with all the wonder and beauty in the world.

He has constellations buried in within the veins of his heart, and it bleeds of golden elixir sometimes and it makes me wonder of what fire must have created him. He has golden pigment embedded into the branches of his brain that so often springs streams of diamond infused clouds that makes its way into your lungs; and it wraps around every branch. Suffocates you so that it's the only thing you know.

To watch him is to feel the fire raging behind your eyes. To speak to him is to allow yourself to drown in the ocean behind his pupils. To love him is to open up your heart, petal by petal and find his name engraved within every crease only to have him stitch it back.

To bathe in his presence is to drown in his charisma; in his waning ego and waxing munificence.

And to know him is to feel as though you're opening your eyes to the world for the first time every single day.