She was like a teetering mess at the top of a spiral staircase;
everyone was waiting for her fall...except him.
He was holding his breath for another reason altogether.
Would she stay or would she fly.
Would she laugh or would she cry.
He'd write fairy tales in his next life, he imagined.
Ones where the princess wasn't swayed by
demons or whispers or powders or any king's poisons.
Nothing would matter except her prince, he decided.
That's how his stories would end. In his next life.
He couldn't help but think
that whoever was writing his fairy tale lost the plot.
A few pages had gone missing and no one could find them.
Because all of a sudden, there he was...
standing at the bottom of a spiral stair
wondering how the hell she got up there.
And all he could do was wait and wonder...
Would she stay or would she fly.
Would she laugh or would she cry.
The stories he'd write would end better than this.
In his next life.
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