She comes down the stairs and she looks beautiful, her lips match her eyes match her dress. My shirt and tie are trying and although they look fine together they will clash with her but I don't care. I have her corsage and she has my boutonniere and we stick each other with pins. She's leaning her head back into mine as we smile, parent picture parent picture. It's the smell I always walked by in the hall, always noticed in class, and now it's all mine, she's put it on just for me. I borrowed one of my brother's colognes and wondering if she notices. Our parents are smiling and happy and probably remember their nights like this one. Keeping it to themselves that nights like this end and the people sharing them grow apart. These things don't last forever and the pain is all part of the process. It's not the happiness that makes us who we are, it's what comes after. Little by little we will learn from how we hurt and whom we hurt, and hopefully next time we do it a little better, a little less. Until this state of diminishing returns leads us to our grave, and the damage we've done is all behind us, and they're crowded around laughing and crying and singing songs. And they remember us fondly.
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