I had a dream that I was making a skirt out of gold lace.
I was so ready to cut it, to finally make it mine.
I went to grab my scissors, and my fabric was gone.
I asked around everywhere, asking everyone I saw if they had seen my gold lace.
No one knew where it went.
I had to settle for pink fringe in the end.

I just wanted the gold lace, damn it.
Don't make me take the pink fringe.

Maybe everything will be better now that our inevitable "trouble month" is over.
Or maybe it won't.

Never planned that one day I'd be losing you.

Sometimes I think about my wedding day.
You're the groom.
You're crying as I walk down the aisle.
We're in Chicago, in a park where I made a Freudian slip
that defined us for so long.
I always wonder if your tears are of joy or sorrow.

Sometimes I think about my wedding day.
I'm the bride.
You're crying as I walk down the aisle.
We're in New York, a place of both of our dreams
and limited opportunity.
I always wonder if you notice that the groom was crying too.