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I pushed my way into the theatre

past throngs of people crowded,

pressed up against each other,

and took my seat among them,

becoming one with the faceless sea.

The stage lit up, your face shining out into the dark,

a beacon of light, unearthing memories, once laid carefully to rest,

with burnt hands and a heavy heart.


You sang songs to someone unknown, unseen,

and I remembered those nights

when you sang to me –

and I froze, something caught inside me

and stuck quick in my heart

and I remembered: winter nights

and strained relations;

freezing streets and sleeping bags;

arguments – then fervent protestations

of Love and promises to be kept.


I remembered moments that seemed

to stretch forever onward,

dark bedrooms and a warm body

that would lie next to me in times of deep distress.

But I don’t remember everything –

not the part I played, for it was horrible,

and I was horrible back then,

only now am I beginning to see

the extent.


It was strange and it was terrible

being one of the eternal audience

watching – seeing, though being unseen –

passing by you in the lobby,

wordless and unknown:

no hint of remembrance;

no glint of recognition;

our last moment shared

in terrible silence.


And I rushed out quickly

with a strange and awful feeling,

But grateful – always and forever –

for what you taught me

about myself.