She stares and stares and stares and stares at him.

The champagne fountains are exploding,

the chocolates are flying through the chandelier,

the little shrimp skewers are landing in Aunt Margarets bouffant,

the children are pulling the lace from the curtains,

the napkins are dancing across the tables,

the snow is banging against the windows,

the flowers are falling off the banisters,

the crystals are crashing against the hardwood,

the dress is covered in au jus,

the dancefloor is a fight club,

the appetizers are projectile missiles,

the priest is standing silent,

the parents are screaming unpleasentries,

the dog is eating the diamond ring,

and all she can do is stare.

She cannot watch his mouth shout empty words.

She cannot return the cake or the place cards.

She cannot stop the war or the pain.

All she can take is to stare at him

and quietly ponder how every piece of her could break at one time.

All she can take is to stare

and wonder from behind her veil where everything went wrong.

All she can take is to look at his soft eyes

and ask him to let her go.

She wants suddenly to run, to fly, to swing from the ceiling fan.

But all she can do is stare

and wait

and stare.