His name is Beau. He's a planet, too.
For the sequel to "Discount Shakespeare", it's time to hero the dreams of the child hearts in everyone. Get ready for an adventure of a fourth of a lifetime that's meant to end right before puberty strikes.
This...
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Beau's Regards A relic to remember Poetry by seomins
━━━ ❃ ━━━
Matinee
This is what goes on in my mind—in its vivacity, its sudden urge to break rules, and its liveliness when the rest of the world is still asleep—before I'm dolled up with hearts outlined by blush, before I take peace sign-bombed selfies by the vanity table, and way before I sing and uphold my fan-acclaimed title of Ending Fairy. (But who's in charge of my beginning? Is this an award I can have delivered to my house at the end of the year and polished occasionally with my feather duster?)
I wake and, again, it's the same face attached to my body that greets me every morning. It's been the same face for a few thousand years now! Not entirely sure, though, you do the math—a jawline chiseled by gods, touched by angels (my ticket to the local wax museum, silent as a summer's first dawning, a few blocks north from home), eyebrows painted jet black in strokes thick and graceful as a high tide, and a pair of chocolate brown eyes that have a blinking rate of five a second, similar to how animals' breathing rates are measured.
My eyes meet the sun that I often mistake for a spotlight, save for the morning's natural warmth and the surprisingly harmless sensation of not being blinded when I look directly at it to take selfies (seriously, how can people take up to a hundred of those without crying?).
Before I get dressed, I press my palms against my cheeks—the former, an icy vineyard, and the latter, fluffy pork buns getting steamed. No wonder they call me a dumpling. A bao. A bae. A bao-bae.
I imagine my future lover calling me that to endear me. My bedroom mirror shows the buns on my face turning pink. I say a prayer of thanks that my styling team is nowhere to be found.
