I was promised a night of chandeliers,
silk gowns spilling like galaxies,
and the trembling courage of hands meeting hands.
But every spring
my ticket led only to the roof—
shingles for pews,
the stars keeping slow rhythm
while the gym floor devoured the music below.
Laughter poured from open windows,
a perfume I could not touch.
Corsages glowed on wrists,
couples spun in quiet orbit,
their smiles rehearsed, yet real.
And I,
I was the lone planet,
circling borrowed moons,
invisible gravity pulling me just out of reach.
Each prom a mirror I never entered,
a tux waiting in a shop I never crossed,
a slow song without my name,
a crown made for the bold,
not for ghosts like me.
So I stayed on the roof,
mapping constellations of other people’s joy,
listening to glass-shard music drift upward,
learning the ache of absence,
making peace with witnessing
the beauty that never touched my hands.
Prom was theirs.
Mine was the night sky,
a ballroom with no doors,
where I danced with silence
and silence always said yes.
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