There’s something beautiful in the sunset, even though in actually it signifies an end.
The pretty colors, the radiant pink clouds floating over us as the sky darkens, it’s lovely, and then the night set in. It’s this sort of expectations of the excitement the night will bring, it only shows us that half of our day is over and so much can happen in the dark of the night. Possibilities are as numerous as the luminous stars: each a wish for better, for newer, for more special, more unique lives we’re already living. Life is so much more than wishing on stars and mystical places, it’s appreciation, and I love. I love you, so much I can’t even begin to describe it; it’s at the point of our sunset, and I don’t think I should have to be the one to call you to hit up the night-lights. I mean, quite honestly, I know, that you fell out of love with me long ago: I can see it in your eyes, and your mouth when you purse your lips in indignation, when you furrow your brows at me like I’m some kind of love-crossed, idiot girl crossed with a pathetic puppy that’s been kicked.
Make our sunset beautiful and our night excited because on every star out there, I’m making a wish for you, for love. “To lay beside you when the day is done, and wake up to your face against the morning sun”
Don’t make me hide my heart away please.
And if you do, my dear, I hope that you at least cared for me at one point. I may be wishing for a ridiculous fairy tale, I wish for them often, and passionately, but I wish for magic. I make mediocrity, I wish for magic. Pretty woman, that old movie with Richard Gere and Julia Roberts, made me as happy as a kid in a candy shop—I kid who REALLY wants Peachy O’s or whatever the fuck they’re called. I mean this Cinderella story, it’s beautiful and magical: but not in a corny way: not a Hilary duff way, in a Elizabeth Bennet way, a Gigi way, a Belle way—where someone admits they were wrong and they correct these major mistakes and accept love for what it is: unexpected, lovely, and magical. I wish for that kind of love because it’s the only kind of magic we have left.
Call me a fool, call me an idiot, call me a love-sick asshole or a teenage girl, but this story book love had to exist somewhere, or sometime, or else we wouldn’t have all these different renditions, we wouldn’t have it engraved in our minds. I don’t think my heart melts whenever I hear a sappy lyric for nothing. I don’t think I clutch my chest during a romantic kiss for nothing. It’s there, but we have to accept it when it comes, whenever it comes, and make the best of it: from beginning to end. Even if it shouldn’t end, or if you don’t want it to end so soon, because you don’t think it got the chance it deserved. So, in the not-so-wise words of the duchess in Adventures of Alice in Wonderland, the “moral of that is” but with my obviously more wise explanation: kiss often and kiss passionately, see into people’s souls, and keep your head in the clouds: you might get hurt, you might get burned or slashed or cut or maimed: but the feeling that you feel when you’re in it: head over heels? Those fuzzles are more than worth it. Cherish it, because as of now I’m living vicariously through you: give me something to live vicariously through people: Give the girl what she wants: besides peachy O’s and being held like the sun holds the moon, that would be nice.
“Fears the only walls that hold me here” Valerie.
P.S. You know what Mr. Hotel concierge in Pretty Woman, it is hard to let something so beautiful go. Every guy who wrote those lyrics, every guy who wanted to kiss a certain girl like that: deserves a quality handjob. Just saying. or something of that nature
