Few people know the kiss of the moon as well as she does, and fewer dream of its touch on their skin in their sleep. She would like to think she is the only one, but she knows better than to think the thought so foolishly.
She feels the phantom touch of lips on the corner of her mouth, a gentle reassurance, the ghost of a caress on her cheek before it’s swept away with the wind. Words are weaved into the fabric of time, embedded in stardust for her to find when the sky falls.
The image is faded, however; a translucent rose that blooms where reminiscence should lie. The roots plunge deep into her blood, twists around her veins and wraps around her heart; grip tight and unforgiving.
Despite the memories of their birth being forgotten, the words remain. Trivial anecdotes and outlandishly spun stories alike; notes left behind that detail daily life, letters that show romance in ways even poets cannot challenge. Each letter is melted onto her skin, absorbed into her bloodstream, bonds with her so that she may taste the sentiments on her tongue, feel it deep in her bones.
Sometimes, she wonders if he craves her words just as much. Pursues them through smoke and ash, inhales their fragrance until it permeates the entirety of his being, until it fills in all his cracks and overflows from the edges, paints his skin with all the letters.
Dearest love of mine- the words haunt her day and night, a demon that possesses her mind and sends it reeling, wanting, hungry. Its shadow appears in every moment it can take, traverses along with the night and tries to drag her down, down, back into his abyss.
Her curled vermillion hair chases after the breeze and her bangs blow across her face, blinding her. She pays no mind, instead locking her gaze onto the sky above her: midnight blue with streaks of deep purple, silver glitter scattered amongst the intricate portrait.
From afar, she simply looks as if she’s appreciating the tapestry of the night; the endless stretch of black, an unrealistic beauty. The view is a beautiful girl gazing at an equally beautiful sky, nothing else to observe, to ponder on.
What her eyes see, however, is a message. A message etched into the sky and illuminated by starlight. A love letter only seen by her, only meant for her.
The constellations begin to twist and bend into shapes, and then from shapes to words. Each shining dot connects to another, a chaotic display of lines and points weaved into unrecognizable patterns. Unrecognizable to any eye, but hers.
She is constantly in conflict with herself. Should she, or should she not long for the company of moonlight? For whispered promises to fill the gaps in fate that their meetings create, for a smile that burns brighter than the light of all the stars in the sky?
If she does, she must be a masochist. She must love the pain of distance that stretches between them whenever apart, the radio silence that sits like tinnitus in her ears for millennia at a time. She must love the stardust that tangles into her hair after she falls asleep in arms made of moondust, a burning reminder of a missing presence when she wakes up alone the next morning.
And if she does not, that must mean she doesn’t care in the ways that she should. That must mean that every touch, every word, every kiss meant nothing; simply a motion meant to manipulate, not to assure.
Her body screams at her to run away, escape from the night sky, away from the seeking eyes of the stars and the suffocating presence of the moon- present yet so, so distant. But at the same time, it aches for the feel of night on her skin, burns with desire to reach up a hand and skim the surface of the sky, satiate the craving that eats away at her soul, though it knows well that it will never be satisfied.
Every thought in her mind is in chaos, but she disassociates from all the noise, lets her heart- weakened, frail from the aftereffects of devotion- command her head to tilt up. And just like that, the walls shatter, and she lets the words flood into her very being.

Dearest love of mine,
I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you more than flowers do their sun, more than stars do their moon. Every lightyear that separates us is like a knife that plunges into my soul, and I long for your touch so viciously that, sometimes, I wish I would stay in my dreams and never wake up, for you and I have an untainted future in my fantasies. I miss the way you light up in my presence, the sun in your eyes when we are together once more. I miss your warmth, your laughter, the sunlight that drips from your words. I confess: your letters are never enough. No matter the content, the length, the sentimentality, it’s never enough. I swallow them hungrily, seek for them like they hold all the answers to the universe. Yet no matter how many I find, it’ll never be enough. You wrote to me once: “Our love is impossible, an imagination conjured up by our own wants, our own desires. After all, why do you think that the moon has the company of all the stars, except for the sun?” Though your words are true, painfully so, I still wish for a reality in which we are able to be together, in which we are at least able to exist in the same space without punishment. Alas, that is not possible, so all I can do is say I love you, as many times, and in as many ways as I can.
Please continue searching for my words, my love.

Yours, eternally,
The night sky and all its stars.