Dearest,
I am aware that I am a self-proclaimed dying star—that one that burns the brightest in one of the September constellations. But that does not mean I am the only star there is up there, right? Just because I'm closer and I burn hotter, does not mean I'm the soul that sparks the words in your mind into the poetry you bleed upon your journal. I am not the only flame in the night—why should I believe I am the only fire that warms you through sleepless nights?
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It's this heart. This wretched, ignorant, noncommittal heart. It just keeps falling for pretty things and oh—how pretty and enticing and just so remarkably exquisite you are.
Just please let me know if I'm not the only one you share your warmth with. Let me know if I should stop falling—even though, as you said it yourself, falling in love is not something you can control. But fuck it.
Signed,
Star.
