I wish... that everyone believed in the most magical, lyrical, dreamworld, heart-thumping, head-spinning, storybook things, catching only glimpses of them but knowing that they're there nonetheless. I wish that strangers would shudder to a halt, spinning madly on one heel in the middle of the street, swinging to catch sight of pinched imps in fedoras and whistling fauns drifting past the corner of their eye. I wish strangers would tell of how boys in coffee shops steal handfuls of creamers and sugar-cubes, only to leave them in a broken trail in hopes of luring home his sweet-toothed anima. I want quiet girls to tell me in whispered words and hushed tones about how love-struck firebird boys visit them at night, whispering sonnets in their ears when they think they're asleep, and how paper-skinned pixies tell fortunes in the park to anyone who will listen. I wish the world around me would hum to life with long-forgotten tales and dusty stories and folks would tell of how these bedtime stories have cracked into the modern world in tiny, wistful specks of life.
I wish... for pink tights and cowboy boots.
In this quietly spectacular week, my sleepy boys and electric girls, what do you wish for?
Always,
Penelope ♥
Penelope ♥
4 comments:
I wish for my halls of residence to turn the central heating off when it is beautifully hot outside (not so much inside though).
I with burglars would theive elsewhere so myself and others can open our windows without fear!
I don't think I realized it until now, but I wish everything you do.
I adore the sultry art of a southern summer. It does make one believe in mysterious things.
I wish for hot summery days, with pltenty of soft green grass to lie on and watch the world float by.
I wish for that the mysterious him to be interested in me. To scavenge pieces of information about me from pieces of hearsay. I want him to see not as a chubby, awkward girl, but as someone quietly beautiful, philosophical: brown, curly hair flowing, green eyes sharp, features small and cat-like. I wish he would experience the same engulfing attraction, be curious to find out how I think and formulate ideas, how I write. I want him to notice the poems I left scattered at the edge of his vision.
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