To my beloved to be, I-
(Hmm, no, too fancy shmancy.
Crumple, toss.)
Greetings, future husband, I-
(Nah, that’s no good.
Crumple, toss — ah, whoops — re-toss.)
To my prince in shining armour:
(PERFECT!)
I know we haven’t met yet, ’cause
you’re off in some foreign land, like
Italy or France or
Hollywood or
someplace
growin’ up all cultured and
reading Shakespeare for fun in a cute accent that
will make my name sound majestic when-
ever we meet, and
you’re probably really busy because
grade 8 is a lot of work,
I hear,
and of course you’re 3 years older ’cause
that’s the perfect age gap
according to Seventeen Magazine the experts, but
I just wanted to say
hello.
I think about you a lot sometimes,
y’know,
when I’m sitting in class or
alone on the bus or
trying on Mum’s pearls that’ll look divine
with my wedding dress.
I wonder what your favourite animal is and
what you dream about and
what you’ll order on our first date
(to Baskin Robbins, if you don’t mind, it’s
kinda my favourite place)
and whether you ever wonder
about me.
Just some days I question if
you’re really there:
a living, breathing boy somewhere
in the world instead of
some puff of my imagination when
I’m picked last in gym class and
my strapless dress won’t stay up and
my desk is empty each year when
they come to deliver valentines.
So, I guess if I’m shy at first to
hold your hand or
read you my poems
it’s not because I don’t love you, just that
it’s hard to believe in dreams coming true
when most of my shooting stars
turn out to be
airplanes
in the night.
[trx_infobox style=”regular” closeable=”no” icon=”icon-feather” color=”#000000″ bg_color=”#E23F04″ top=”inherit” bottom=”inherit” left=”inherit” right=”inherit”]Ariella is in her first year at the University of Guelph, majoring in Psychology. She has been writing her whole life and can’t wait to see where it takes her![/trx_infobox]
Photo courtesy of Pawel Furman via CC0