They say that timing is everything. And here we are. Everything
feels right but the time. You’re not mine. You can’t be. Save for those
precious moments before that door opens and you have to leave. I lay back and
my hopes dissipate against the ceiling like the cigarette smoke escaping my
lips.
Sometimes even as I hold you I feel the moments slip away
until we put on our friendly masks and play our daily roles. Roles we cast off
in passion and tenderness; behind shades and scrims; curtains and closed doors.
Where you fall into me and I fall into a field of down that feels like home.
Like your skin against mine. Like looking in your eyes and knowing you believe
in me.
And I just want to hold you a moment longer, trail my
fingers along your back. Feel your cheek against mine. Tangle our limbs and
fall asleep until we lose where you end and I begin.
But we can’t stay in this green room forever. Eventually,
every time, we must take the stage again, and play these roles we’ve chosen.
And we glance across the room with the vague imaginings of another play upon
this stage. Different costumes, different steps, different masks, but your hand
in mine in the final act.
No comments:
Post a Comment