We were so young
when marriage flooded our town
and drowned us all.
One after another,
swamped
by champagne pyramids
and pink silk.
“But he’s the one”
each droned on,
weary hand
on soft cheek.
“It just makes sense,”
those wild eyes,
purses filled with plans.
And then I find I’m knee-high in a crowd
of blooms,
quite happy to be stuck in this melancholy state,
quite sure that their youth
was far too unblemished.
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