Love at first sight—
that thunderclap, that certainty—
none of it holds.
The planets line up by accident.
The hormones flare because they must.
And what's needed is simple:
someone to love, someone to admire,
someone to inspire,
a muse to amuse.
Not the one. Just one.
One whose orbit happens to cross
at the exact angle
where gravity feels like choice.
There was anger once—
the belief that people could choose better,
that love should mean transcendence,
that two meeting should be more
than chemistry and circumstance
colliding in the dark.
But anger exhausts itself.
Underneath: longing.
Not for perfection.
Not for rescue.
Just for somewhere to pour this—
the readiness, the loaded altar,
the appetite with nowhere to settle.
Surrender to the nature of things:
the ignorance, the laziness,
the path of least resistance
pulling everything downhill.
Love doesn't happen because anyone's noble.
It happens because the planets lined up
and for once, just once,
the easiest path was toward someone.
So: wait.
Not for destiny. For deployment.
For the next alignment,
the next flare,
the next entropy that spirals close enough
to call it fate.
And love them.
Not because they're meant to be.
Because they're there,
and the longing's still here,
and somewhere tonight
someone else's entropy is spiraling closer—
pulled by the same gravity,
the same flare,
the same longing looking for somewhere to go.
The planets are already moving.
All that's left is to watch the sky.