Polar signs

We are nebulae painted in the arrogant imagination of the artistic astronomer.
We are stripes mitred into geometric puzzles by the enthusiastic textile designer.
We are the product of a god that is omnipresent yet anon.
We are the mellifluous violins in the rendition of Pachabel Canon.
We are the synaesthesia when astrology meets psylocybin.
You are a Uranian blue, I am a silver-green moon, we are arcing in a universal dustbin.
We are monochrome rainbows that masquerade as Mobius strips.
We are a trillion inches apart, yet when I close my eyes, it is not my own heartbeat that within me whips.

Happy Birthday my darling V.