There are some people who come into your life and feel like more than just a person — they feel like a force of nature. They shift the air when they enter a room, they bring color to the gray, and they remind you that beauty can be found in both calm and chaos. To love them is to feel both grounded and free, like standing beneath a vast, open sky that somehow knows your name.
When I say you’re the sky to me, I’m saying you are the breath that steadies me — the exhale that softens my edges and brings me home to calm. You are the quiet miracle that unfolds across the horizon, colors blooming like confessions at dawn. You are the shimmer of stars that pull me into wonder, the gentle breeze that wraps around me — cool, warm, and impossibly tender — like the memory of a touch I never want to fade.
When I say you’re the sky to me, I think of summer storms and their wild beauty — the violet clouds, the silver flashes that light the heavens, the thunder that feels like a heartbeat I’ve always known. You are that power — fierce, breathtaking, alive — and yet you are also the soft rain that falls against my skin, the reason I want to dance barefoot in the dark.
You are fireflies and starlight, thunder and lightning, every sunrise that dares to begin again, every sunset that aches with beauty. You are bright blue horizons and glowing moons — infinite, untamed, and the quiet ache between what is seen and what is felt.
When I say you’re the sky to me, I mean you are everything — vast and wild and endless — and still, somehow, you feel like home.
Because love, real love, isn’t about possession or perfection. It’s about awe. It’s about looking at someone and realizing they hold both the calm and the storm, the light and the shadow — and loving them for all of it.
Crow and Flame 