King and queen we are, our castle of cards, our house of clouds, we needn’t worry so, my love. A song drifts by, catches my eyes; I reach out to grasp it, feet balancing on the water, rippling beneath my wobbling soles. These shoes are new, aren’t they?
It takes two to stay on top; you grab my waist from behind, hands keeping me steady. The song disperses before I can get a good grip, notes scatter through the air, butterflies of the human mind, the lovely need to decorate–it would have been perfect for our sitting room. Never mind that, we’ll put a simple melody down for now, that’ll be nice enough if we have guests.
Through the heather now, before the stars start falling, don’t want to get wet. The sun brings the poetry out. Dance with me, my love, before the words run out and the carousel stops. We’ll pluck the candyfloss from its branches and take our chances with the spider silk.
King and queen we are, silver crowns around our fingers, solid as daydreams, smiles abundant, as many as pennies can buy, which, for something that costs nothing, is a lot.
The handwritten gate opens to the garden, run through, quick–the hour only comes once a minute–down the stepping stones we go, piano notes ringing out of each one. A fairy tale follows us through, dancing about our ankles, teasing at your skirt like a gentle breeze, ruffling my hair. Would you like a scarlet cloak to go with that flowing dress? Would you like a noble steed and a valiant sword to go with that handsome face? The rain scares it off–there’s no rain in fairy tales—and after all that effort to keep my shoes dry.
We are already in our happily ever after; once upon a time the ink was not dry in the sky.
Clothes soaked and dripping, clinging to the skin, I throw my head back and sing to the devils above and the gods below, and their tears pour down. I really did want to keep dry. You write us an umbrella, and, as the day says goodbye, we run, vault over the wall, our names painted on the bricks in saints’ fingerprints and human dreams, graffiti of you and me.
Back to our home where the giggling fireplace awaits, where we are us, where the terrain grows soft as a ballad. I’ll write one tomorrow to make up for that lost song; it can go in the kitchen or the living room, wherever you please. I may start it tonight and play it for the moon, she gives good criticism. The tea lights scattered about the lawn are coming to life in the gathering darkness.
King and queen we are, our castle of cards, our house of clouds.
We needn’t worry so, my love.