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There’s something about him that makes you so hopelessly drawn to him, like a moth drawn to gentle flame, like a traveler in love with the stars, like a flower basking in the sun’s warmth.
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You’re the moth; he’s the flame. Before you met him, you always wondered why moths never turned away from that scorching light, even when it’s on fire. You slowly but surely learn to understand when you see him. He’s fiery and bright, with a smile that rivals the sun. It’s blinding—he’s blinding, but you don’t turn away until you burn. You feel it in your veins, you think, the fire that comes from his touch, from his smile, from his laugh. They sear onto your skin and in you until you feel the fire all over, but you don’t turn away. You’ll never, because he’s the fire that burnt your walls down and pulled you from the dark with a smile. You saw the sun in him, even when he thinks he’s just a small flame that will stop burning, eventually and soon. He doesn’t know, but he’s the fire you’ve been longing for all this time, and then you know why the moth can never resist the flame. That’s you, and you’re hopelessly on fire.
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He’s the stars, and you’re a traveler lost in his beauty. His rich blue eyes remind you of the sky, and the stars that pepper his skin make constellations that make you want to trace your fingers against his skin. You’ll never get tired of it, of him. You watch the way his eyes brighten and darken with his emotions, and you know he always, always puts his heart on his sleeve, for all the world to see, and he’ll never stop doing so. You’re enamoured of the way he loves the world, enamoured of the way you get lost in his eyes, enamoured of the way his skin feels against your fingers as you touch the stars on his skin. They say you can never get hold the stars held suspended in the sky, but you know better. All the stars that ever mattered to you are on the one person you’ve ever wanted to hold.
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You can never stop and can never get tired of looking at him. When you found out about sunflowers and how they can never stop facing the sun, you feel oddly sympathetic. You’re like that, you think: a lone flower chasing endlessly for that warmth as if you’d die if you ever lose it, and maybe you would die if you do lose him.
And then you did.
When you get him back and see him all battered up and bleeding and hurting, when it was just the two of you, you cry. You kiss his eyelids; you kiss his scars; you kiss the stars on his skin that paled from the pain he’s been through. He holds you, and he’s warm, and you hold onto that warmth like your life depends on it. The light you’ve only ever known is flickering and wavering, but you still can’t stop looking at him, still won’t stop making him realise he’s only ever been more than enough. He’s your sun, and you’d never look away.