Hope

is not in the waiting, Eliot.
 
No, not in her lot.
Hope is in the swing
waltzing with the wind
and the jolt of a young girl's legs
hanging down loosely;
in that oscillating back and forth
between downright naivety
and comforting joy.
 
She could have wrought Love from silence
and not one graceful No
if she'd believed in you, Eliot,
and sowed Hope in the waiting.

TALK

Our eyes will snatch a moment
amid all that glitzy hussle
of the make-up arrangements,
mishaps of forgettable size
and what-if-I-got-to-pees,
hastened calls to the groom
for paying perfectionism its due;
you trying to hush your mum's
final polish-ups to your manners
by wide opening your eyes
and pressing the lips tight 
while twisting your head to see your face
in the mirror in its entirety,
(familiarly and expectedly beautiful it will be);
and that moment so fleeting and full
where our eyes talk a brief silent talk,
will wet those mascaraed lashes.
But rest assured. Yours will be water-proof
and fleeting moments don't leave a mark.