The celebrant spoke, but I didn’t hear a word. I fell into a trance, absorbing every once-in-a-lifetime second.
A piano is broken. Burnt, seemingly. A harp is stranded, unplayable. Chairs in a once lavish dining room are rotting.
Like a million fools before me, and a million more to come as sure as night follows day, I leave my virgin emotions unspoken, expecting osmosis to be a go-between.
No shaking shoulders and no audible sobs for this public crying needs to be invisible for the grief mask to be effective. "Don’t let the sun catch you crying", sings Gerry with his Pacemakers.
His closest friends at the time were those people who excel at throwing those parties that spill out of an artist's canvas of a house and should only exist as an amphetamine slideshow held together by ragged descriptions in Brett Easton Ellis novels.
It would be overstating it to say that we came to Melbourne because of Vince Jones. But it didn’t hurt that you can find performers of his calibre there.
Songs have been there for me when people haven’t. In the breadth of its short verses, it contains moments that capture everything I have loved about love and have been lucky enough to experience.
The lovely chauffeur called the number on the wedding voucher and had a long gesticulating phone conversation in rapid-fire Italian. He hung up, turned to us and said, ‘Documents, she no arrive.’
Romantic glances were exchanged, embarrassing dance moves produced, high notes aimed for but never hit.
And though not the worst/ part of our on-again off-again ways,/ the latest loss of you stings me anew