The world turns a dusty shade of indigo.
Peach lipstick smiles and damp car windows pull us miles closer.

"The sky was painted just for us,"
I want to tell him.

But truth be told, I don't even know the artist's name.

Maybe the inky landscape has always been here; viewed countess times by many such as ourselves.
The infinite dreamers who feel entitled to its beauty.

But I know the truth,
and I have a feeling he does too.
The world is not mine and mine alone.
It belongs to you and I and everyone between.

So as we gaze into the galaxy around us,
It somewhat comforts me to know that we are not alone.