I have so much faith in him that he will never see. When I look into his eyes I see the astroids colliding, giving birth to new galaxies and a marvelous universe all his own. A universe that I want desperately to be apart of. Looking in the mirror though, all he seems to see is the blackhole in his galaxy, created only to swallow the dark times and engulf us in the beautiful ones.

Next year he is going to be in New York writing, I know it. There is no hesitation in my heart when I tell him this but he won’t ever believe it. He doesn’t know how brilliant he is, he doesn’t know that he is the god of his own universe. We all are the products of little, tiny bits of stardust left over from the creation of the known world, but I am almost certain that he got a little more star dust than most in him and that's why he radiates like the sun. He is a writer, he can breathe life into stone and take the heartbeat away from even the mightiest of beings with just a swish of his pen.

His soul is poetry. Sonnets course through his veins, rhyme schemes and word play are his oxygen and his heart beats out the rhythm of words. He's that poem I have always wanted to write and goodness, I'm going to miss him when he becomes the world's idea of poetry and not just my own.