When That Day Arrives

Before that day arrives,

I hope you can tell me long before

the ink dries on the invitations, 

the bachelor party is thrown,

so I can buy myself a plane ticket

to an island far away.

You’ll be out there debating peonies or lilies

and I’ll be here planning my itinerary.

Perhaps I’ll disappear

beyond the Bermuda coastline,

become one with all the shipwrecks,

because at least they know

how it feels to be broken too.

I’ll travel to

somewhere far enough 

where the wind won’t whisper your name

and the air doesn’t smell like you.

When that day arrives,

you’ll be standing in your sharp suit,

flooded with so many congratulations,

and I’ll be lying on the beach,

sipping a double-shot martini

convincing myself that this

is not a tragedy.

You’ll be posing for family pictures,

and I’ll be pressing my cheeks into the sand, 

hoping it will absorb my sorrow

and not give it back.

But if I’m honest,

before that day arrives,

there’s still a part of me 

waiting for you to drop by one last time 

and say

Here—

I traded all the scars on your body

for a lifetime of happiness

with someone else.

Here—

the picture of the woman

whose smile held the answers

to every one of your whys

Here—

everything I needed you to be,

everything I asked of you

in the shape of an angel with no wings.

Finally,

when that day arrives,

you'll close your eyes with bliss 

and I’ll close mine with a prayer

not for you to come back,

but for my heart to let go.