Tell me a story. One for every constellation in sky, each whispered word a star. Divulge the secrets of the universe to me, as we lie side by side in the cool grass, our fingertips barely touching. Tell me story with a happy ending, one where the lovers find each other again and escape death. There must be more to star crossed love than Romeo and Juliet. The world doesn’t need to know how we did it, how we solved the unsolvable riddle of love, unraveling it word for word when our eyes first met. Not if small romantics could be anything greater than what we know about each other, what we wish we have discovered. You tilt your head to the side to glance at me, biting your lip. The shyness of new love is nothing like the passion of Shakespeare plays, more like rough hewn poems with trailing off phrases that don’t yet make sense but are still understood in the basest of meanings. Tell me a love story that doesn’t end in ruin, but build me a temple made of half-mad poems and unfinished tales.