Lost Wedding

She is a dress that is the face of a ghost

It almost reflects her soul as she wishes

To escape the prison especially

As she hears the priest say “holy matrimony.”

She is a dress that shows virginity

She has not been broken into 

And yet she has been torn apart limb by limb

After the curtains close and phones turn off.

She is a dress that reflects purity;

It is the color of innocence, long 

disintegrated like a snowflake

As her nose breathes in beguiling powder.

She is now a dress that is stained,

An imperfection so perfectly placed 

Right at the bottom of the gown 

Where butterscotch urine has trickled down.