The Morning Of

I couldn’t sleep.

I didn’t want to wake.

Was it excitement or cold feet?

It wasn’t excitement.

It was the most extreme case of cold feet.

I don’t know

But one thing’s for sure;

I couldn’t be late.

I spent hours in the chair,

every pin meticulously placed.

I spent hours in my room

without a care, without a trace.

Not a single imperfection

in a single, solitary hair.

My face is a canvas,

painted as a masterpiece.

All to draw a gasp from him

when I step out veiled in white.

I neatly comb my hair,

put on my most pleasing cologne,

don my finest suit—

all for naught.

How could they possibly be focused on me

when her beauty’s laid out for all to see?

When I enter, a sea of color

—except, for white, of course—

will rise before me.

When I enter,

all I will see is black.

I’ll have the chance for greetings later,

with smiles and teary embraces

for people I haven’t seen in ages.

But, right now, the moment’s mine.

Right now, the moment is hers.

But I’ll be sharing this joy.

With him.

But I must endure this pain.

Alone.

Maybe the scent of flowers

wafting from my grasp

will draw him closer to me.

If only the scent of flowers

adorning her pillow

was enough to wake her—

to bring her back to me.

How can a few feet be so far?

I know tears are inevitable,

but I want all to hear

the words of love I tenderly chose

for him.

How can I make it through the vows?

I’ll never make it through the eulogy.

I must remind myself that

After today

I’m going to see you every day for the rest of my life.

I won’t see you ever again until the end of my life.

I swore you eternity.

I’ll keep my promise.

I kept my promise.

“Till death do us part.”

(Note: This was originally a slam poem written and performed by myself and my friend Matt. It is designed to be read my two people, speaking independently, indicated by the right or left alignment, and sometimes in unison, indicated by the center alignment. I share credit for the writing of this piece with Matt)