StarGal
She didn’t arrive like sunrise.
She came like moonlight,
unexpected,
slipping through cracks
I didn’t know were open.
She didn’t ask permission.
She laughed, teased me
and the walls I built
introduced themselves to the floor.
She was girly,
wifey,
y,
not in shifts,
but all at once.
Yet so tender, real, and rare.
A hurricane in a sundress.
A song I didn’t know I needed
on loop in my ribcage.
She didn’t love me gently.
She loved me like she knew
what I was hiding.
Like she would memorized the code
to a safe I forgot I locked.
She kissed like a dare,
argued like gospel,
left voice notes that ruined sleep
and redefined peace.
She borrowed my hoodie
Then wore it like it was a crown.
Left her earrings on my desk
like artifacts.
And I let her.
I wanted my peace.
But I wanted her more.
One time,
In that little bedsitter,
she splashed hot water on my face.
not out of rage,
but because laughter lives where logic doesn’t.
She didn’t say sorry.
Just laughed,
soft and wicked,
like she knew
I would remember that moment forever,
not for the burn,
but for the way
she made the madness feel like home.
She didn’t belong to the world.
The world belonged to her.
Mi StarGal.
Eyes like gravity.
Smile like theft.
Voice like rhythm.
She didn’t fix me.
She made the mess worth staying in.
With her, I wasn’t perfect.
But I was present.
With her, I didn’t need poems.
But I wrote a thousand anyway.
And now,
when people ask
why I look distracted
when the sky is clear.
I say nothing.
I just smile.
Because some stars
don’t live in galaxies.
They live in girls
you were never ready for
but still can’t let go.
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