I wonder who bought the dress that they put back on the shelf. On my flesh and bones it sat, briefly, tucked into my waist with a pair of bull nose clips. But it was magnificent, and I deserved to see me in it. I won't have the joy of kissing in it next month, but I like to imagine the day in store for it after being hemmed up to the height of the right girl.
No one died, but there's a part of me calling for the space and time to respect the fallen. And to be acknowledged within my grief and relief. I have both, and sometimes they bicker.
Where's the narratives to look at that feature women who try and fail. Someone needs to write a guidebook for the ones that got away or got away upon.
I am not lost, but I lost.
My ghost of a September wedding. For a bride-to-be that isn't to be, I'm left wondering what I can do with this time. I didn't realise before now that you could observe a countdown even when the vital components of ritual have been deconstructed.
I have almost lost to time the tactile memory of it, my ring, cold on my skin and nestled between the two low creases of that fourth finger.