Your presence in my life is like gravitational microlensing, and l can see things I didn’t know existed before.
I’d like to sweep the chaff from your life like photoevaporation clears protoplanetary disks.
Everyone told me that your signals were like atmospheric oxygen on exoplanets, and that I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but you are all that I’ve ever wanted.
Everyone told me that my chances with you were comparable to a planet forming near an O-type star, but you are kinder and more amazing than they accounted for.
You may feel like an exoplanet, with only a fraction of your parent’s brilliance, but you’ve always seemed outstanding to me.
Anyone who thinks you are less than amazing is as mistaken as Captain W. S. Jacob was about 70 Ophiuchi.
Until I met you, love was as elusive as mini black holes.
You are as stunning and full of possibility as a protoplanetary disc.
I feel like an accretion disk, pulled in by you.
Like the event horizon for general relativity, finding you led to my Golden Age.
You may share black holes’ reputation for being a mathematical curiosity, but I find you surprisingly practical.