how foolish of me

My makeup was flawless.

There are days when my makeup is alright and days like tonight when it is perfect.
I felt radiant, like the night I took myself to the symphony.
The way I used to feel when he looked at me.
The look that made me feel divinely feminine.
Even the gal I knew at the venue and the gal working the door complimented me.
That dress is stunning. And full of hope, the romantic girl within me beaming, I waited for him to arrive.
Every body that passed the windows caught my glance and I wondered if each figure might be his.
His.
So unknown and still somehow comfortably familiar, like a recurring dream, where fragments are vivid but the whole, the whole you can hardly recall.
And I marveled over timing and destiny, over its trips and slip ups, over its uncertainties and its irrefutables.
And the music played on, beautiful, vivid, and the people stopped passing by the windows and my phone, silenced, blinked with no messages, and the hopeful girl in me accepted defeat.
Once again. One more night. One fallen prince.

But as the songs poured on, the candles continued flickering, and the little girls strength grew.
With or without such a handsome stranger, hope glowed.

Someone, some day would see the beauty within one woman's songs and ache for the chance to hold it in their hands.
Some things are worth waiting for, a lifetime, a symphony of unheard melodies aching to fall from her lips.

Until then, she plays.
And she sings.
Every eve.
For the music, the music must play, with or without its chosen audience.