Napkin Rambles

I sit alone, trapped
in some sear-sucker suit saturated with
barrel-aged envy,
while you mingle and smile from the side of the bride,
sipping carefully on a rosé, or champagne, or pinot,
I couldn’t tell, and
I didn’t care.

You used to be the person who considered fineries a nuisance
and thought the nuances of socialite life were trivial and suffocating.
You used to ooze desperation in your aspiration
to escape fixed suburban addresses,
years of middle management successes, and
extensive list of regrets.
We used to share our disgust for how this life had lied to us
about the romance of living
reckless and stubborn.

I wish we could relive
the late summer nights spent huddled
in the remnant of an American classic,
beneath rain pounding on weathered aluminum,
where we would beat on the frame and howl at the darkness.
We spent hours picking at flakes of caked on rust as we talked about us
and nurtured our urge to break the unbroken and
watch the establishment burn.
Little did we know between fits of laughter and coughing
that sentiment would cede to responsibility
in adulthood.

There was a time where you might had seen
I was leading you towards certain uncertainty
maybe if you were older and wiser
instead of young and eager,
you’d have heard me mumble night after night
into the threads of the carpet
about my plans to leave-
an obsessive intention of the discontent,
a typical assertion by those searching for purpose.

You'll soon retreat to the safety of our assigned seating,
glanced at me and remark on the beauty of the ceremony
and the intricacies of our floral center piece.
You'll shiver, and I'll peel my suit jacket off to wrap you in comfort.
These drunken ramblings will be quietly folded up and used to clean
buttercream icing from your cheek.

You as you were,
and you as you are,
would appreciate their utility and untimely fate.