Why do I weep
at the woman in the wedding dress
dancing with her ex
on the TV screen.
I don’t want to be her.
I was her
and I fucked it up
and can’t ever have that first wedding again.
I weep for my innocence,
I will never sit on a hard wooden pew
or stand in a garden of lilacs
watching a man and woman pledge
and not think – however briefly –
of ten years, and tears,
and how I blinked and woke up here.
Moment by moment
I have remade my life,
but it was only five minutes ago
that I bought my own white dress,
and only a second ago
that I took the tax deduction
and gave it away.