In the days of yore, there abided a wee fairy devoid of a name.
She oft flitted about the forest,
twirling with the moonbeams and sprinkling
fairy dust upon the fallen.

One day, a wayfaring prince crossed her path.
Peculiar sensations surged through the tiny fairy.
She knew not the meaning of such emotions.

The prince vanished from sight,
and she carried on her merry way.

That night, she dreamt of a sunrise so radiant
it nearly burned her delicate wings.

Awakening to the melodies of birdsong,
the fair nymph felt a dampness betwixt her thighs.

"Methinks," pondered the wee fairy, "what hath befallen me?"

The day passed, and once more she spread benevolence
to the suffering souls she passed by.

And there he stood again.

Curiosity piqued, she swooped down to perch at his feet.

"Who art thou?" she asked mirthfully.

"Why, greetings! I am Prince Richard. And pray, tell—thy name?"

"I am a nameless fairy."

The prince smiled.
"Fly up to my shoulder—I have somewhat for thee."

And up she did flutter.

"Art thou prepared, little fairy?"

She nodded, her mind filled with bewilderment.

Prince Richard softly blew a gentle kiss her way.

All too soon, the sun gleamed brighter,
the birds sang sweeter melodies,
and the squirrels danced upon the boughs of the trees.

And then...

In a cloud of fairy dust and myriad stars,
she transformed into a woman.

"Oh, mine Prince Richard, what sorcery hath befallen me?"

"Thou hast revealed thy true nature. Now, bethink thee—what is thy name?"

The new woman grinned widely.
"I am called Lily-Rose."

The prince nodded.
"Greetings, Lily-Rose. I am Richard. Let us dance."

Together, they truly danced.
The creatures of the woods joined in the merriment,
and ere long, the entire forest overflowed with love.

Lily-Rose and Richard spent each day guffawing and jesting,
and ere long, love blossomed betwixt them.

"Lily-Rose."

"Aye, my prince."

"Shall we…"

"Oh, aye, let us make love."

And make love, they did, again and again beneath the moon's tender gaze.

They dwelt a splendid life,
with each passing day more exhilarating
and ardently affectionate than the last.

True love discovered the little fairy and the wayward prince.
It had forever resided within them;
they were merely unaware of its presence.

And indeed, they lived happily ever after.

"I've had it with this heat. I can't breathe, I keep coughing and
the doctor still hasn't come to see me."

"It's a life full of trap doors, my sweet. Only yesterday I fell down
one and landed flat on my back. Now all I can do is wish the day
away until bedtime."

"It's a good job we're in bed, then."

"It certainly is. Shall we smoke some lung destroying tobacco?"

"Sounds perfect, but first come here and give me a cuddle."

"We are awful, aren't we?"

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Oh, I do love you."

"As I love you. "

"Kiss me, you miserable *****."

"He-he, there's more than that on the menu."

I have rituals
for the first day of class
like a superstitious athlete
they get me into a good frame of mind
where I feel like a juggernaut who has total agency
and doesn’t need to seek validation
It’s a moment in time

I have all my books—stacked on my desk
they look serious—very nuts and bolts
I’ve beaten the syllabuses to death
to try to figure out where my power lies
learning is all energy, it’s a marathon
it’s hard to sustain that for the entire semester
so not switching off, now and then, is unrealistic

Still, I’m comfy in in a classroom (I’m a senior)
Good students are just a little weird.
I say hello to the moon so she won’t feel alone
I say ‘cheers,” before taking a shot of mouthwash.
If I lose my ID, my lucky pencil or something, I call out, “treasure hunt!”
When treating everyone to grubHub I ask, ‘the usual?’ When we’re done I ask, ‘how was everything this evening?’
If I see a random girl looking fabulous, I tell her, because if I get complimented, I think about it for a week.
.
.
A song for this:
Thetan by Single Gun Theory

She was a twenty something
art student with just enough
cleavage to allure my attention,
she spoke with an elegant whisper,
her hair resembled a roosters ****
although her red framed glasses
complimented the style brilliantly.
I have read all your poetry she said,
you are so openly honest about
prostitution, drunkards in ******
strip clubs, washed up poets in
drug infused jazz joints, the cruelty
of bull fighting and oh my god
*******!. You must be confusing
me with someone else I said. I went
back to my lonely room and wrote
this down …
Clay.M