ss-writess: There was a time when I thought poetry was weak- a prettier form of speaking for people afraid to say what they mean. I preferred certainty. Numbers. Systems that stayed in line. Things that could be measured cleanly, like gravity, distance, or time. Then I met you. And suddenly language began to fail, like signals disappearing from a ship too far beyond the veil. Because how am I supposed to describe you plainly? How do I explain the way my thoughts distort around your name, like light bending near stars too massive to remain the same? How do I tell you that your presence alters rooms the way moons alter tides, without sounding consumed? I can’t. That is why people write poetry. Because sometimes emotion arrives too large for ordinary speech to survive, like trying to hold a galaxy still while watching it expand alive. You made simple sentences useless. “I love you” feels painfully small for something that rearranged my mind, for someone who made the universe itself feel briefly easier to find. So I reach for stars instead. For orbit. For collapse. For constellations dying slowly while still pouring out light into the black. Because astronomy is the only language I know vast enough to compare you to. And even then, it fails. Space can be mapped. Stars can be named. But there is still something about loving you that refuses to stay contained. Maybe that is all poetry really is- the human heart attempting to translate impossible scale, using rhythm and metaphor where direct language fails. And you… you are the only person who ever made me understand why some feelings become poems instead of simply being said.