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Description
In the nervous light of dawn,
the memory flickers just like the final star.

It is the first star I saw at dusk,
but it hovers over the gentle photons
dancing through morning dew,
and it’s like the dream that slips
like a key into a lock—

Or out of it, the vision forever
planted behind a door I cannot open,
but I could tell you of its remnants:
the smells that seep through the
seams in the doorjamb,
the sounds lingering through the walls
and conducted to me in muffled
huffs of breath that scream
of the fading joy—

Slowly disappearing in the morning light,
downstage left, the scrim is not backlit
and I turn to face the empty night.

For this morning is an audience,
and I have not prepared a monologue
or parlor tricks to entertain,
only this that I grant the stage:
my feet are heavy falling,
but light moving, as I dance in drunkenness;

Could I speak to you of the light
utting through the narrow cracks
twixt my blinds, bleeding ‘round the edges
of my curtain, the silhouette of a window
to the outside world.

But if I open it,
they would also see in,
and the darkness is so much friendlier,
the silence is so much warmer,
unless you open the door
and replace it all
with body heat.

Description
In the nervous light of dawn,
the memory flickers just like the final star.

It is the first star I saw at dusk,
but it hovers over the gentle photons
dancing through morning dew,
and it’s like the dream that slips
like a key into a lock—

Or out of it, the vision forever
planted behind a door I cannot open,
but I could tell you of its remnants:
the smells that seep through the
seams in the doorjamb,
the sounds lingering through the walls
and conducted to me in muffled
huffs of breath that scream
of the fading joy—

Slowly disappearing in the morning light,
downstage left, the scrim is not backlit
and I turn to face the empty night.

For this morning is an audience,
and I have not prepared a monologue
or parlor tricks to entertain,
only this that I grant the stage:
my feet are heavy falling,
but light moving, as I dance in drunkenness;

Could I speak to you of the light
utting through the narrow cracks
twixt my blinds, bleeding ‘round the edges
of my curtain, the silhouette of a window
to the outside world.

But if I open it,
they would also see in,
and the darkness is so much friendlier,
the silence is so much warmer,
unless you open the door
and replace it all
with body heat.