Lily of the valley, don't soil your dress. You spent your entire month's salary on that thing; creamy white, flowing silk reaching your ankles. Your face is a light, your heart a violin. You remember the night he showed up beautiful, and she showed up as a bouquet of red roses. You didn't think much of her presence at the time because he was all you could notice. All you wanted was him. Her with him? You scoffed; you couldn't imagine it, so you tossed the idea aside. You walked through the velvet curtains as a bell. A fine one, made of crisp white porcelain, just like your laughter. Your eyes scanned the rows of one hundred strung lanterns that imitated the city skyline. You breathed in the delicate melodies that tangled with the dim of the sun. You were speechless when your skin tingled under summer's first breath. You were nothing but optimistic. You were prepared for grandeur.

Dear Lily, where is your valley? White is the color of the swans' dance. Pearl is the speed rain dries. You dropped your silk ribbon. He didn't notice the chime of your bell over the glamour of her rose. The flow of silk you held so dear did not faze him. Your ribbon is the clear water of the sea. It is you and all that you admire, but he gave you a mirror. He showed you that you embrace the white of hope but look past the same white of ignorance. He showed you that his favorite color is the red of flame and passion, not the white of purity and serenity. Not the white of your bell.

You noticed when he held his red rose close the whole entire night from when the sky was brilliant orange to when it darkened into a deep indigo. He kissed her softly every time a star revealed itself. He breathed in her fragrance as it weaved ice and fire together in his lungs. He buried his nose in her hair as the inferior world around him evaporated. He serenaded her with the blaze of his bliss. Lily of the valley, you are a bell. The scarlet of her rose held him tighter than the blood in your heart.

Don't cry, your tears are made to flood the ocean of your glory; don't waste them out of sadness. There cannot be stars without nighttime, love. I know you need someone to lean on, but he isn't a pillar. I know you yearn for touch, but he isn't perfection. Lily of the valley, you are not a rose, but your blood bleeds deeper than any flower. You are not fire, you are snow. You are delicate, intoxicating, alluring, resilient, and you have a voice as piercing as it is soft. Your light is fluorescent. Your words hypnotize anyone who catches a word. Your sun is luminous and your essence is ivory. Ivory, the color of innocence, of naivety, of old window shutters basking in the sun's early rays.

You turn to look at your dress, and promptly laid it gently on the stars.