Blackout.
The pitter-patter of actors
is overridden by an applause
well-deserved, but not demanded.
Wrinkled, sweaty, delicate
palms against palms, resound along
walls against walls- offbeat
yet amicable with the orchestra’s fortissimo,
a tasteful dissonance of admiration.
Goosebumps tickle my skin,
running up my arms as the legs
of a spider would.
I clap for as long and as hard as I can,
not even bothering to wipe down
my wet cheeks.
Lights up.
Their suits and gowns
smell of classic garden roses
and tell a tale of monochrome swans,
black and white resistance-
unable to exist without the other.
Not even a speck of glitter remained
from the dazzling masquerade where
disjointed waltzes were tugged into place
by the master puppeteer,
snapping masked heads in unison,
conductor to the roaring of the cymbals.
A fervent warmth remained in my chest
for the stage I wished to rewind, replay, relive.
My lips contorted as though they were too,
bound to string, silently singing along
until they disappeared behind the depths
of the curtain.
Bittersweetness lingers on my tongue
for what could have been, what were to happen
to the abandoned phantom, his voice in my bones;
a tender, haunting music of the night.
Hart, Charles. The Music of the Night, Andrew Lloyd Webber.
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