The Ghosts Of Late July
We were happy once, weren't we? I write about you the least. A scab I don't want to pick at, a scar I refuse to see. I remember leftover rice from our rehearsal dinner flying all over my bright blue dress, as you slammed on the breaks in an abandoned part of the city and started screaming at me from the driver's seat of my car. I remember you locking yourself in the guest room and locking myself in my car so I could pray to God to tell me whether or not to marry you the next day. I remember finding our marriage license between the seats. I don't remember anything else from this night, that night before I vowed my life away to you.
But five years later, free from you, free from a locked car, all I can hope is that we were happy once. Because why else would I have eloped with you the next day in a meditation chapel with my intern as our witness? Why else would I have chosen you over everyone else, even if it was just for a blink of our lives?
I pray to God that you are happy now. I pray that you have found your peace. I pray that you know that insecure, shaking, unsure blonde girl loved you more than anything in the entire world. I pray that you know sometimes things just don't work out, and we might never know why, and always be haunted on a night in late July by ghosts who are incredibly, madly in love with each other. And we just have to let them dance the night away, until one more empty anniversary has passed, so we can face the day again.