the prince say he will pick me, out of all the beauties.
and i can never forget that eyes staring back at me, right through me, when he said that.
has it been awhile that i stop feeling beautiful?
the prince, that big blue eyes, almost childlike. It remind me of music, somehow. it remind me of sapphire and nightinggale, of roses, on the couch, yes, the bird that keep fluttering until the songs die.
my little fairy tale, my prince, did i tell you that i write story? i m good at writing story, my own story. and i decided to write a fairy tale this time. the secret garden, where the black car scurry pass the cinnamon tree. there, we met on the knitted misotle, almost, but we did not kiss, becuase of the misotle. the darkness is so alluring, as dark as the autumn sky, and the air sparkled with an unspeakable magic, that dyed it pink. the prince ask me about white boys. he say i look like the girl in a bruce lee movie.
i love this drink, my magic potion, smells of sweetness and a sultry warmth. the evil fruit , that got caught down your throat, seduce me again after the great exile. i was fallen. my prince, your cologne fills my head. it is a different kind, was it a perfume, was it not. it should be a perfume that i m thinking of, but it is not.
the clock strike midnight and i have to go home. no, call my cell phone. i will see you again, prince,alone. your blue eyes silently demanding, for someting too vague to concieve. you cant see through this haze, not with your royalty. it is the beauty of it, you never know when those lips are gonna meet.
so cinderalla left with no crystal slippers, but her scarlet lipstick remains, with a grande caramel apple cider.