a / n ;; This is something I've had collecting dust on my desktop since, like March or something. I've gone back and tweaked it a bit, and here it is. Originally, this had four acts (like your standard play) but after editing it, I couldn't stretch it to four and still make it cohesive. Sorry? The lyrics are from Black Cat by Mayday Parade, which CherryFlavoredChalk (isn't she a doll?) introduced me to recently. Read her stuff and you win a cookie.


And flashback on the girl
As we montage every memory.

Act I

The tide comes in the tide goes out. There are forget-me-nots in her garden-- small and pale and blue, redolent of sand-scratched promises she's sure are forever and ever and always, baby.

So she waits and waits and waits for a prince that is stars and skies away, fighting for girls that aren't her (and honestly he doesn't even know who she is anymore). He's been taken in by falling-star-charm promises and wooden-sword-oaths. And, oh princess, can't you see?-- he's (almost) never coming back.

Never ever?

Never ever.

The days stretch further than she can count on her fingers that twist and turn in nervous anticipation (because what if he isn't?) And, soon enough, she finds that she can't remember the sound of his voice, but really, she had seen it coming, and she finds that she doesn't mind quite so much as she thought she might.

She's losing him in bits and pieces and trying to hold onto them is like trying to hold onto a wisp of a dream.

But, her sandman is the sort that sprinkles eraser shavings on her eyelids and dashes driftwood-dreams against the rocks of an island she hasn't visited in ohsolong. And, then, all at once, there's nothing left (of who?) at all.

Act II

There's a star-shaped space on her desk where the dust isn't. She likes to run her fingers across it, feel her heart skip and sputter and not know why. It's almost like touching a dream, she thinks, or maybe a nightmare. But, that can't be it, because the only nightmares she's ever known are of chipped fingernail polish and boys that don't call back.

Whispers in the dark and worlds behind her eyelashes. Girls without hearts and boys with light bulb-bright eyes. They're meaningless relics of things that (never) were.

And, who ever heard of such a story, anyway?

She likes the stories she can wrap her hands around. Textbook assignments of all the things that are unimportant; Selphie's gossip about boys and their too smooth moves and make-your-heart-melt kisses. 'And Kairi, why don't you date this-one-or-another?'

'Because they're not the one.'

'Then, who is?'


There are forget-me-nots in her hands, and the petals are soft as silk between her fingers as she plucks them one-by-one-by-one (he loves me, he loves me not) making wishes on she doesn't know who.

There's a story and she can feel it building, words locked away behind glass walls sent out to sea.


'No. My name is Kairi.'

'Oh, his Kairi.'

And, when the portal comes, and really, she had seen it coming, she finds she isn't as scared as she thought she might be. She just holds her breath and counts to ten as she plunges through the purple-black void and hopes that it takes her skies and stars away to the (starts with an 's') boy she's sure must remember her, too.

Forever and ever and always, baby.