my love is not a theatre play
(i would rather stay behind the closed curtains and let people only wonder what i’m like when i’m in love with you)
they don’t know your name. even if they do, they don’t know what it feels like when i roll every syllable of it on my tongue, in nothing but a whisper: how they ignite the little fire i need to stay alive, how my heart beat suddenly remembers the road and goes home right away. i don’t dare to say it out loud for i fear the fire would burn the stage down.
no, they won’t hear this confession. this will be something left untold for ages. someone in the future might make up stories, tell their grandchildren that my love is some sort of an old tale — no one will ever know if it’s truly the truth. i could be a part of an adage, or just a myth. someone will remember, some will not, but with me i’ll keep it in my pocket to death: your name.
these people come and sit to watch a love story unravel, in warmth like a cup of tea not a forest fire, in bravery like a warrior with his sword not a girl with her poetries. they will see me in fragments and silhouettes, wondering if i’m just putting you in my embrace or kissing your temple, asking if i’m kneeling just to pick up what’s left on the ground or to admit what i’ve done wrong and beg for your mercy.
no, they don’t have to know. i am no princess. my love is not a theatre play. let them watch me only in the shadows: faceless, breathless, utterly in love with you. until the light goes out.
