A wedding cake sits cold and rigid behind a glass screen. I watch for it to fall as I stand melting in the hot Sunday sun. I want to take my camera inside it. I want it to find the big gaping hole that runs from top to bottom. I want to see where the knife cut and trace my fingers along its scar. I want to excavate the site and find what is left. I want to know under which tier the bride is buried. I want to know if the groom stands at the top, teetering in the backdraught. I want to know the exact time he slipped silently into the grave.
I want to find the skeleton of the bride laying broken at the bottom. I want to take her black dress and lay it softly over them like a shroud. I want to crawl into the ringing bells and stop the lulllaby. I want to hold up the walls, to stop the cavity and keep the chamber. I want to lay with both of them and take my lense close. I want to take the celluloid to their bones, to see if I my camera can pick up the track of a beating heart.
I lay too long, the tomb is silent and I am frozen there. The whirr and click of my camera frosting into my hands, the film unable to burn. I slowly pull myself outside the window, wipe the icing from my lense, and cover it up... again.
I walk away, the pyre rustling and groaning beneath my feet.
I don't look back.