learning to flirt with the universe

i used to think
the universe was a stoic librarian,
thumbing through books
with no time for foolish things
like me.
like love.
like the way my knees buckle
when i see the stars rearrange themselves,
just to remind me of a love i’ve forgotten.

but then i realized,
she’s not a librarian—
she’s a poet with lipstick
smudged like constellations.
she’s a burlesque dancer
in a gown made of nebulae,
stripping away every layer of my certainty
until i’m naked with nothing but questions.

this isn’t love at first sight.
this is the slow burn
of figuring out how to wink at infinity
without looking desperate.

when i learned to flirt with the universe,
it wasn’t with a pickup line—
it was with the way i started to listen
when the wind moaned through the trees
like a lover begging for attention.

i began to touch her
with the kind of reverence
that doesn’t ask for anything in return,
fingertips trailing over the edges of possibilities
the way you trace the seams of someone’s scars
to learn the stories they’re too afraid to tell.

she responds
when you’re bold enough to whisper
in the spaces where logic doesn’t fit.
when you send up prayers
that aren’t dressed in suits and ties,
but in the rawness
of “i don’t know what i’m doing,
but damn it, i’m showing up anyway.”

and suddenly, the universe flirts back.
not with words—
but with the way your favorite song plays
on a stranger’s radio
just when you thought you couldn’t breathe.
or how the rain falls heavier
when you’re already soaked,
as if she’s laughing at the drama of it all.
or how you wake up
with the taste of stardust on your tongue,
even though you’ve never left your room.

flirting with the universe is a dance,
messy and awkward,
because no one ever told you
infinity likes to lead.
you step on her toes with every doubt,
every hesitation,
but she doesn’t care.
she just keeps spinning you around
until you forget
what it means to be afraid.

and when you finally let go—
when you laugh too loud
at your own ridiculousness,
when you confess to the stars
that you’re terrible at this
but you’re trying anyway—
she kisses you back.

not with her lips,
but with the way your body
finally feels like home.
with the way the sun stays a little longer
on your skin,
as if it’s memorizing the shape of you.
with the way the moon whispers secrets
only the brave get to hear.

flirting with the universe
isn’t about asking her to love you.
it’s about letting her teach you
how to love the parts of yourself
you’ve always been afraid to show.

it’s messy and holy
and erotic in ways
that have nothing to do with sex
and everything to do with the audacity
to say yes
to everything she offers.

so, here’s my advice:
buy her a drink,
spill your soul on her barstool,
and don’t be afraid
to let her see you blush
when she laughs
at your terrible metaphors.

the universe isn’t a librarian
or a poet or a burlesque dancer.
she’s all of it and none of it.
she’s the reflection in your lover’s eyes.
she’s the silence between heartbeats.
she’s waiting for you to stop pretending
you don’t feel her
pulling you closer.

flirt with her.
dare to fall in love with the infinity
you already are.