Curtaincall

 

On today’s late-night show—

My bookcase sitting against the wall,

And the dreams shelved inside.

Would you look at the moonshine,

Waltzing across the glossy veneer,

Never quite stepping in.

So remain hidden,

Fractured treasures of our past—

Tattered parchments. Yellowed maps.

Rivers trace the creases of your rugged hands,

Tugging at the skeletons of my sunken ship—

Epics of my Atlantis.

Enter Sandman—

Shove me into the blackest abyss,

Just before our Pas de Deux,

When tangled letters of your cursive hand

Scripted the ending credits of your biography.

Somewhere in the silence, I’d reclaim my lost city—

And the precious peace I left behind. 

But scratch these sentences. Skip the histrionics.

It’s time to drink the truth.

The moon bears witness to this pristine moment.

Intoxicated in hues of charcoal grey,

My soul pines for a certain ghost.

The spinning bottles point at you:

Our special guest tonight.

The books stay unopened.

You left me out of the final act.

I could keep the silence—

Maybe hide behind the curtains,

But will you finish what we started?

You’re the star of my show.

And the show must go on.