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She sighs,
sitting upon her divan,
gloriously done,
in silken threads and chiffon,
like a royal adorned,
with flowers in her hair made of gold.
Yet a trembling sets in,
as she sits with eyes closed,
and a finger tracing her own lips,
softly,
as if holding on to a memory.
‘Miss Caroline,’ her name was called,
and she rose ever unsure,
was she doing the right thing,
another caress of her lip with eyes shut,
recalling the kiss.
Was she sure?
‘Miss Caroline, are you ready?’ came the maid’s voice,
heading popping around the corridor.
Caroline stood upon shaky legs and followed,
ever turning to look out the window,
to the horizon her desperate eyes sought,
the prince of her dreams.
He had made a promise to return after all,
but when? It had been a year and more.
Yet the kiss lingered as a phantom,
wrecking havoc galore.
As she enters the hall,
all the guests, the distinguished men and women stand tall,
welcoming the future Royal Bride,
who till this last moment wished,
and hoped a known face would hurtle through that door,
and whisk her off her feet,
adornments and all.
Yet the time ticked and the door remained closed,
and upon her slender finger was slipped a ring,
small yet it weighed the world,
her own world,
asking a question again and again,
what happened to that promise,
that dream,
of love.
Around her went applause and cries,
inside her a silence that yawned wider,
ever wider,
for how long she dared not think.