white lace

Embrace it my

love.

now irrespective of your past outpourings,

your once-resolute intentions.

Immerse yourself in your coming

wanton days,

your true ecclesiastical existence has arrived.

Swiftly so it blossomed

this loft assumption

of commitment.

never “imagining you would be where you are right now:

about to marry the man you can’t wait to spend the rest of your life with…”

It’s hard for me to ‘imagine’,

or any of us who knew you then.

When your joy

Spread like fire

your complacency

Like hemlock.

“stir up some passion

with Uncle Ben’s…”

cause all that’s left is somber Sundays,

and bowls of spicy rice,

to compliment movie night.

maybe the wine

tastes sweeter,

or so we hope.

It’s all we got,

to bestow our blessings

and

hope.

hope you can hold on

and keep from

remembering

what made you,

from

shattering

the horizon he’s painted.

maybe he never started,

but I know he smells

like the locker room,

the chapter room.

But I hope you haven’t lost your scent,

your gaze;

I pray it’s not

dead.

But don’t kill yourself

trying;

know the smiles fade,

running with mascara

through culverts of summer

storms,

and the dew of the rising red.

we can’t govern the tides,

tame the whippoorwill.

everyone’s ship sails

and I know you’ll never

reach new lands

without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a long time.

safe travels,

I’ll be checking the mail.

forever yours,

Rice Ferguson