It seems that I find him in everything now. The world in its entirety—right down to its very core—reminds me of him. Come to think of it, I’m not sure which is more breathtaking: the universe, or he himself.
I walk along the shoreline and watch as the waves crash and recede, crash and recede; and of course I think it’s a marvelous sight but the whole time I’m staring at the water, I’m thinking about his eyes, wondering exactly how many shades lighter they are than the ocean, noticing that they’re more vibrant and alive than the waves, longing to look into them for an eternity.
As I drive back home, passing the park near my house for the billionth time, I’m mesmerized by the familiar apple blossom tree living just three feet away from an unoccupied bench. My car slows down, eventually coming to a halt because of a red light and I stare at the flowers hanging onto the branches, and I am reminded of his lips. The curves that the petals make remind me of the dip in his cupids bow, and I think to myself that the flowers may be light and soft and beautiful, but even more so are his lips.
I almost didn’t notice that the light had turned green.

I sit on the porch after dinner and watch the sky fade from blue to orange to black, and I merely stare as the stars begin to appear. They dot the sky slowly, easily, and my mind instantly thinks of the freckles that spread across his cheeks. I may not be able to touch the stars but I can tough his freckles, and doing so feels like an even bigger feat.
Sunlight wakes me up in the morning and I open my window to let in fresh air. As I do, a ray of sun flashes in my eyes and, sure it’s bright, but it’s nothing in comparison to his smile. When his lips curve and his dimples appear, something warm surges through my veins and illuminates everything inside and around me. Nothing, not even the sun’s incomprehensible light, is brighter than that.

My world is just one big metaphor for him and this is why I constantly wonder: is he made of the universe, or is the universe made of him?