Belle Vue

The most majestic views look
Photoshopped,
Craggly blue, snow-capped mountains
Under a singing-bright sky,
Behind the calmest lake you ever did see, undisturbed by the chopping of paddles and propellers and river shoes and fringed by wild grasses and flowers.
The lake is so clear,
You can see right to the bottom.
So clear,
It makes you wonder.
It's all so idyllic,
You would almost expect
To sigh
And be wearing something other than
A meaningless, sweaty T-shirt and soccer shorts,
Maybe a sundress, and clasp
Your hands over your heart,
And sing about your love,
For life or a boy,
Some people get the two confused.
The view is idyllic,
But the way up was not.
The way down won't be, either.
A person can only reside in a postcard so long,
And the sunset would be beautiful, the stars clear and radiant,
But the walk down wooded mountain switchbacks,
In the pitch black
In a sundress
With no flashlight,
Would be less beautiful.
Unless you see the elegance
In search parties.
Your last words might be to paramedics,
About the boy it turns out you loved
More than life itself.
How about no?
How about you just walk down the path in daylight,
In your meaningless, sweaty T-shirt
And soccer shorts?
How about you just go home?
I promise you will sleep well, with nothing gained except soreness and memory, but nothing lost, either.
You don't even have to take pictures,
They'd look fake,
And perfection
Tends to stick in the mind
Anyway.