The cathedral stands as a fallen empire over the ruins of what once a place I called home. She waits at the top step wearing that white bridal shower dress that ten years ago would’ve aroused my attention, fluttered my heart. She’s older, then again, so am I. Older. Grayer. A misanthrope drunken by the feel of the crowd. I see her and think that if things had gone a bit different. If only, right? That’s the problem with looking back while walking forward. You always wonder what might have played out, while missing out the images the reel is playing. At nineteen, I set off to make something of myself. A failed relationship. A few journals. A romance with do-not-resuscitate tattooed on its…