Illustration by Dom Brown

Tori Lemon
Editor-in-Chief

When I was eight years old, my grandpa bought me my very first telescope. We strolled out to the country on a clear summer’s night. Nothing but stars to see for miles- but my only focus was the moon.

It was
Bright,
luminous.
Beautiful.

I set up the telescope and put my eyes to the lens, then went speechless.

Looking back, the first time I saw the moon, it reminds me of the first time I saw you.

I was
Intrigued,
overwhelmed.
In awe.

I’ve always been fascinated by nebulas. The way their colors combine- creating hues that do not even have names yet. The combinations of blues and greens and yellows, almost kaleidoscope like.

Nothing on earth resembled these pigments until I saw sun beams hit your eyes for the first time.

Suddenly, the flashes of tints and tones surrounding your pupils came to life.

Your eyes were
Interesting,
artistic.
Almost celestial.

Who would’ve ever imagined that months later.
The freckles on your face would replace Orion’s Belt as my new favorite constellation.

That being apart of your world replaced Neptune as my new favorite planet.

That after years of watching documentaries on black holes, you would become my own- sucking up and vanishing any thoughts of fear or doubt left in my brain.

That although the surface of the sun burns at approximately 10,340 degrees Fahrenheit, it’s nothing compared to the warmness of my cheeks after you kiss me.

I no longer need to look at the man in the moon to find beauty and comfort. I need only to look at you and your intergalactic soul.