Red Dress Alone

glancing 'round I see a full moon

pale against the dark suits of others

you are wrapped in red as if to tell me

all at once of love, of fire, and of a wound.

But my wife-to-be is cloaked in white

like your face, so pure, but there is

no hurt in this one's virgin dress

those craters lie somewhere

behind your eyes, she has none.

If not for pride, you would not set foot

in this quaint, little chapel. They would

burn you for the witch you are, licentious

and cold. Cold as the void that you filled once

now bled dry. "Because power is more than

any poor politician or capitalist could ever

dream up," you said. I can hear you

whispering that through eyes, black

with deepest hidden hate. I laughed

nervously at that then.

Now you are just a ghost of a ghost. You

haunt yourself. And I know because of

the late night calls that are silent

but for the almost concealed tear,

forming the diamond on her finger.

There is nothing left to say now.

The vows are read and I look into whole

eyes of the most warm, lacquered wood

and sigh such relief that I was right, "power

is the satisfaction I get from walking away."

She and I kiss to cheers and clapping

but it's silent to me because someone's hands

are still as death. They think this is

a funeral. Turning to look, I realize

you were never there at all.