I’m so ******* high on stardust, I inject glitter into my bloodstream.
I live in no fairytale and that a prince won’t find me is highly likely.
I only write stories about longing, after all that’s all I feel.
But I’m good with the pen, have a soul of a poet, I’m creative.
So I grab my calligraphy pen and I write your name in cursive, then I take one breath and write mine next to yours.
It’s an untitled story, an unpublished romance and I’m not sorry for any nuance woven into it.
I take his proposition.
Ask my everwishing soul to speak sweet compliments like someone playing the harp.
I polish my blue eyes like sapphires, let them sparkle in the glow of big round emeralds,
and that is the start.
That is the start.

Where do I continue, I wonder.
Friends first or lovers, I ponder.
For realism I’ll make it meander and weave in a couple of tears wet nights so when all the lights turn back at them, he would grow fonder and realize he loves him so much.
But my pen is just an object, I’m the object of some grand plan, I’d try to paint what I crave so bad, but even the greatest painters fail, cause love is hard.
Play my song, take a cruise under overpasses in West Oakland, California is home, but if he won’t come I think I won’t go.
And that is the draft.
That is the draft.

After many ripped out pages and grenadine flavored drinks, I can’t write the conclusion.
I don’t wanna be there yet
I don’t wanna skip past that
I don’t wanna climb that high
Cause if I fall, may not stand up.
I leave my calligraphy pen, shut the pages provisionally, then I get undressed and swim in the glittering stars.
And that is the ending for now.
That is the ending for now.