V. Lucy

I never gave her a toy crown or tiara, for even though she’s my princess she is that to no one else, and the¬†world will only see a cheap circlet of painted plastic bejeweled w/more plastic, and isn’t plastic the fakest of the fake? But she is flesh and toothy grins and an abnormally large head of unruly, imperfect curls that add up to a perfect bouquet to gather in my hands and dig through to find the base to cover in kisses, the kind of pecks reserved for the sweet-smelling brain-cap that protects the unspoiled dreams that float through the misty evening fields. Even the fireflies have silenced their softly smoldering glow that manages to blare through the peace belonging to the mysterious constellations. In this darkness, the black blanket is peppered with those named maps of stars whose names everyone forgets or perhaps never knew, and perhaps they will forget or never even know my princess, but my hand to the god of those heavens, those who remember her eyes, heavenly white-streaked violet eyes, will never forget the warmth they bestow on every living creature from ant to great white whale, and when your heart rises to your smile to answer hers, her spirit jumps higher than any great white’s. I can’t stand to think of how this hard world will place road blocks and hurdles in her path, and can’t bear to bring those on by spoiling the dreams under the brain-cap and curls that smell sweeter than a bouquet of spring violets w/hearts of white and gold, because truly, a plastic crown painted gold would take my princess away. And so she remains crown-less, and while I never call her “princess” to her face, she will always be that to me, curly head to my heart.