Your Pink Dress

The pink dress you left behind sits in the window

Of a retail shop on Congress Avenue.

Trapped on a torso going nowhere,

Between a wedding gown and a sign: “Buy 1 – Get 2”.

No face to smile when it’s dancing on a Friday night.

No arms to hold someone ‘til the bar shuts down.

A mannequin wears it now waiting for tomorrow,

And a new life outside this empty town.

Now that I’ve said it out loud – it reminds me of you.

Not the ribbons or lace, but the soft, blushing hue.

Some days I drive by as a test, find out I’m still a mess.

I know you’re gone, but you haven’t left -

Locked in a white frame and glass, your pink dress.

I suppose I could stop in and buy it.

Hide it in a box and forget for fifty years.

Then one day I’d remember where I left it,

And wouldn’t stop myself from ending up back here.

Now that I’ve said it out loud – it reminds me of you.

Not the ribbons or lace, but the soft, blushing hue.

Some days I drive by as a test, find out I’m still a mess.

I know you’re gone, but you haven’t left -

Locked in a white frame and glass, your pink dress.

The pink dress you left behind sits in the window

Of a retail shop on Congress Avenue.

Waiting on a torso to go somewhere,

Maybe I should learn to let go too.

Now that I’ve said it out loud – it reminds me of you.

Not the ribbons or lace, but the soft, blushing hue.

Some days I drive by as a test, find out I’m still a mess.

I know you’re gone, but you haven’t left -

Locked in a white frame and glass, your pink dress.