Here I want to write about a galaxy. 

I want to paint a picture with a slim-tipped brush on the inside of your mind. 

 

It will have milky skys and dark summer nights 

and holes in mysterious places. 

Faces, 

not too many of them so that there won't be the will 

to take and take. 

 

Imagine, 

dipped in perfection and delicate seasoning, 

there will be a blue mass of deep salty water, 

sand that shines golden under the moon shadows. 

Blue moons, yellow moons, pink sunsets, orange sunrises. 

There will be intricate details in meticulous order, 

the tangling of a sparkling web. 

 

Don't open your eyes 

until I tell you that it's safe 

to believe in 

the feather colored curtains of my fantasy. 

 

Shut them tight until you realize

that this all sounds strangley familiar. 

 

Gently flutter a lash 

and take a peak at what has always been obvious. 

 

There is a galaxy; 

it's our galaxy.