Glossed Perplexity

I swiftly trace my hand over the white envelope as if it is baring a child dear to me. I might never know if in that lays truth, yet, to dismiss any intruding thoughts, I convince myself that it is not meant for me to open. 

I pass down the correspondence to miss Celestine as supposed to, who only brings out her hand from between the autumnal curtains that I hope would fall for once and grow in the glory of a pale emerald child of spring. Imagining such tableau; in the absence of Celestine, would not be complete. I can't say I am at loss of words at her beauty, nor romantic ugliness, for I have not once seen her. Only very rarely heard a short tune of her voice, shooting through the comically round room, making me think of a well designed bird cage for food and comforts, so much that they fill the room, not leaving space to wonder. Those moments may be only a torment of my loneliness. This inner storm crashes on the shore and leave my ears pondering over whether I heard the cries of a lost fisherman or the blink of a mermaid so i know what I tell my sister if she calls. 

I fear of growing bitter of this position as messenger for the princess, having been passed down generation to generation in my family; but every day the sun glazes me, followed by the cold, shimmering bits of the moon clothing me like the veil of a bride does with all her loved ones before her goodbye, assuring me that I am a fine dessert, but I still don't know what I am meant for, even as the most precious, sweet treasure in the world, I don't know if I am meant for the birthday of a little kid or the wedding cake of two unlovable grooms who had only found a spark of curable lonesomeness as their common ground, deciding for their love. 

She's been silent for too long now, so much so it starts to worry me; thought it is not the silence, but the scorning feeling that the room lacks in presence, my very being being pinched in announcement that I should now run from the dangers of the wrong. 

Until further letters or notice, I will do my duty. Yet, there are none at the moment. 

This may be my cue to leave. Not only me, but also for the past generations, which complied together in forming my present understanding. That may be why I reached for the door so quickly, a glacial pace being a defining characteristic of mine, for I fear if I move to fast I will not have time to take a step back. Now, there is no reason for that. What belongs to the king, belongs to the country; but the king is dead.