Dear A,
You will always be January.
The gilded glimmer of the holidays receding, magic worn off, nothing but the reality of the rest of the winter ahead. Can you even call it winter in southern California?
You are that chilly San Diego sunset. You are burgers and black coffee with a splash of cream. You are a midnight mountain hike. You are constellations.
You connected the dots in my sky and from your nebulae, newborn stars of promise glittered in nightfall. The gravity of your galaxy pulled me in, a willing satellite. Your eyes are the only telescope that can see my dark matter, stargazer, you are solar.
Love, M
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