I’ve sown myself into this forgetful fashion. Gazing at how perfect the world looked under the delicate lace trim. Imagining how marvelous I’d look tucked under that glorious chic attire.
I was head over Giuseppe’s, so far removed from my everyday apparel. Displaced as a model of superb stride. A refugee on this runway of sight driven exhilaration.
Trapped in a show of luxurious proportions. Wrapped in this immaculate gown from the depths of my Vera Wang infatuations. My mind draped in a royal fascination of fabrics.
Too busy marveling at spring pigments to realize I’d let go of your hand, days ago. And you waited but you couldn’t recognize me in my Westwood designed disguise.
I’ll admit. It was easier to see the collection from my chair in the front row than to window shop with you in the center of the city.
I didn’t want the windows, just the labels.
But now the stitching has pierced my conscience. And my better judgement bled for hours onto my gown. Until it was worth little more than a secondhand glance. And the facade became real to me. I had lost you.
Now I realized where I’d been. I was away at that week for months. Wandering amongst the changing fashion. Lost in the intricate beading of a sketch brought to life.
Now I only wish I had sown our broken seams sooner. Before we ventured so far apart.