Smoke and Mirrors

The auditorium begins to fill. Like a glacier, the throng of nameless people descend down the aisles to their seats. Deep breath. Showtime.

Curtain opens, music erupts, sparks fly. Take my hand and follow me. Dancers dance, singers sing, actors act. Let me tell you a story, let me sing you a song. Lights, colors, motion. Magic, illusion, awe. I'll make you feel, I'll make you care. Stakes are raised, emotion rises. Climax, plot twist, fireworks, finale.

Curtains close, show's over. Crowd erupts, standing ovation. Leave the theater, you can't stay here. Clean up, wind down, prepare to do it all again tomorrow.

Small child approaches, eyes full of magic. "I saw you behind the curtain," he says. "I saw you pushing the buttons and pulling the levers. Why didn't you come out on stage?"

Kneel to his level, eye to eye. "I was onstage the whole time," I said. "Sometimes it's really hard to see me through all the smoke and fireworks."

"How come you use the smoke?"

"The crowd isn't here to see me. They just want to see a show."

The child thought for a second. 

"Do you ever wish the people could see you?"

My turn to think.

"They will. Someday."

All The King's Men

Glass bottles on the windowsill, standing proud and still for all to see. The grunge of sweat and tears no longer stains; only transparent glass remains, polished and clear. Once prized and cherished, now cold and useless. Open mouths reaching upwards in protest, longing to be filled. The tops were never found. Emptiness abounds.

The windowsill is full of emptiness, growing everyday like a bad addiction, new and clean replacing old and dusty, overflowing, lingering precariously on the edge. Spinning, tumbling, crashing against harsh reality like raindrops falling on barren trees. Over and over. 

Sharp chunks of failure and disappointment scattered across the floor, the bottles are nothing more. 

All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put Humpty together again.

Sometimes Silence

They say the first thing you forget about a person is their voice. I haven't forgotten yours. Not yet. 

It's been so long that I fear you've changed. I'm afraid the memories deceive me. I'm scared that the one I left and the person I meet won't be the same person. I'm afraid that this won't be a rekindling of two souls, but an awkward exchange between two equally wounded individuals who barely know each other anymore.

But I haven't changed, I can promise you that. I'm still the same way you found me - broken and alone.

My mind is full of everything I've ever wanted to say to you; I wrote it all down so I could remember. I have it all planned out. I replay the moment over and over in my mind, as if it's already happened: you walking through the door, a smile on your lips, your eyes electric and piercing, and your voice. It's sweeter, smoother than I remember. Your very presence is soothing to my aching heart. And then I would spill the beans, I would tell you everything I was too timid to say before. I would come clean about me. About you.

I sit where I can see the door clearly without being too obvious. The butterflies in my stomach nearly fly from my mouth in a nervous stream of excitement, my heart thunders inside my chest, threatening to explode. My eyes stray back to the door incessantly; I can't help it. I rehearse in my mind again and again, waiting, feeling, hoping, dying.

Time came and went. It was time to go home. I stand there, lost in the throng, alone in disbelief. Surrounded by people, none of them you.

Frozen beside the door. I can't leave. I can't leave you. 

I hit the door, I hear my name. I turn and you are there. No angels singing, no rainbows in the sky, no beating of my heart. Only you.

I find myself falling, falling into your embrace, a jumble of smiles and tears, exhausted and trembling, broken but no longer alone.

The words die in my throat.

Sometimes silence is the only way to tell you how I feel.