Dirty Socks

There is a wedding shop across the street. There is a man and woman, wooden, standing in the window looking blankly out, displaying their marriage gear. Sullen and dead as mannequins are I can't help but feel they represent a large population of the living.

Why do we stand in front of someone who tells us we are bound? I panic at the hopes and dreams of those who see 'forever' in their bouquets, tux and tails.

He stands, staring at his reflection in his shoes as she clutches her flowers. They fight back the tears of expectations of what this moment means and will eventually splinter into.

Two kids, the TV running, dirty socks and resentment brings out the bags you pack that take you back to that part of you you forgot to take with you.