The day will come when he will marry his life partner,
and I will still be alone.
Yet another of my most cherished loves
will decide to cut themselves from me. I will go to the wedding,
I will show,
solo, in my best suit-and-tie
(though, really, they will not be mine--
like so much else,
they will be rented,
wearing me,
despite my expert performance
indicating to the contrary),
and I will smile, I will say
in my most polished, not-me voice,
wow, oh, you, yes you, ah and also yes you, the husband, yes I am so happy for you two, yours is truly an inspiration...
And as the whiskey grows sour on my breath
and the night begins to begin to wear on,
though for the rest the night will not have begun,
I will slip away into it, I will disappear
as I have become so good at doing,
and though it may not go unnoticed, it will not matter,
and I can have my sour heart and my acid-blood,
and they will have each other for the foreverest forever
that a venue and a planner can promise.
I cannot see me ending up with anyone but him
(and it has been this way before,
with different hims,
the same hymns,
though altogether individually differing, despite
my presence as the lowest common denominator
[and o!, how low indeed I go...]).
I will think,
as I do now,
of poetry
and solemn things
and how crisp the air is, how familiar...
I will think of this very night, sitting
and reflecting forwards as I so often do (or did),
and I will think of nothing else
but,
perhaps, my
perennial sadness, a beast and a friend and a lover
I cannot shake.
My love has been with me
through thick and thin, and
we are nigh insep'rable,
for which I am ever-grateful.