The sun rises from the night, onto the beloved Hollywood sign. The northern lights are all a lie made up for just you and I. Time stops when I see your eyes, much like L.A.’s Friday nights.

I see your house from outer space, your bath, your fire place, and the bed that’s made just for us, that I’ll crawl into when the stars align.

On that fateful night we’ll see constellations made of our northern lights. Then fall into a slumber watching the dimming rays of light from the sunset’s eye.

I was on a hike at night imagining our northern lights, when I saw a telephoto box. It’s rusting red paint, and cracking old glass told its story without the need of a voice.

Just then I saw something more amazing than the fact that this object appeared in my path.

There was a man standing just in it, and I knew just what he was. He was a time traveler, a skill only mastered with time. It was he who told forgotten stories of times past.

My unwavering eye put together just _who_ he was, he was you. And then I realized only I was a star-crossed lover, you were just messing with fate.