Dead Garden Poetry

It was a random Tuesday night,

Curled up with the ghost of some memory,

When I realized

I will not be invited to your wedding.

I will not pick out my best dress,

Nor cry as your bride

Walks down the aisle.

I will not give a speech

Recounting all the incomplete dreams we had planted long ago.

Well,

I might write the toast.

I might practice it

In my best voice

At my bathroom mirror.

But those seeds have long become

A graveyard,

Nursing old memories

And phantom desires.

Somedays, like today,

I walk along the dirt path of our cemetery.

Inhale the sweet stench

Of those rusty melodies.

Hum to myself

Because no one is listening.

No one is listening just yet.

And maybe, one day,

If someone lends me an ear or

Sings me a tune,

I know that it will not be you.

And I realize now,

That I will not be invited to your wedding.

And even if I am,

I will not show up.