To the Bride Who Was Once Mine

I open my palms to let you vanish 

like smoke into another man’s name.

If a sweater, a book, a stray hairpin

still lingers in my rooms,

come for them—

I want no traces of you held here

except the good you once were.

May your wedding glitter so bright, 

With a convoy of luxury cars,

Drones and HD lenses to capture memories 

Expensive vixens for maidens 

And body builders for best men

May people eat to their fill and have spare. 

And the wedding bills arrive like winter storms,

 A reminder that luxury has its own teeth.

Perhaps you tie the knot with a priest,

A man who’s devoted to the altar,

a bishop who speaks only in scripture,

his eyes forever on heaven,

while you wonder if earth

has room for your small desires.

Or maybe the ring will slide

from the hand of an entrepreneur 

A man weighted with wealth—

too many flights,

too many deals,

his shadow the only part of him

you ever see.

Perhaps a celebrity will claim you,

his every breath a news headline,

In blogs, posts, podcasts and trends

Your laughter chased by comments

A life of no silence.

Fame tastes of echoes,

not of peace.

I wish you towers of glass,

cars that hum like galaxies,

a life where the water bill alone

feels like a mortgage—

all the things you dreamed,

each carrying its hidden invoice.

Go, then, into the life

life  measured in gold.

May you have it entire,

and may its weight

teach you the worth

of what we once held quiet.