A Beautiful Thing

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The night sky dripping
constellations, smeared
with Milky Way
is a velvet dress I dumped
a package of silver shimmer
powder on when I was nine.
I cry over it just as much.
Maybe like the universe,
I too was making accidental
art, crashing space rocks
against each other to see
the pretty colors they could
carve into the nothing.
Little Nebula, I could have
called this precious mess.
But unlike the universe
I have spent an awful lot
of time clinging to perfection.
Meaning: stay exactly the same.
Hold onto this velvet skin
and scrub and scrub, mascara
I am not supposed to wear
dripping all over it. Stain remove
the change out of this soft thing.
This is how you miss the Milky
Way. Perfection is just fear
wearing a nice velvet dress.
And I sense I am only one
big mess away from creating
a beautiful thing.