untitled   lulu bean

 

for áine
"broken hearted melody
once you were our song of love.
now you just keep taunting me
with the memory of [her] tender love."

sarah vaughan provides the background music in scene one of the play that has become my life. The stage is set with a record player, a black silent telephone, and me -- the silhouette sitting on the bed in a corner of the candle-lit room.

i keep waiting for your stage left grand entrance, though now i'm wondering if your character has been written out without the director telling me. yet i keep playing the scene over and over in my head, where you run in and yell, "stella!" and i wrap you up and carry you to the bed, where i spend the night in your arms and between your legs.

"oh, broken hearted melody
must you keep reminding me
of the lips i long to kiss
and the love i miss
since [she] went away."

scene two finds me in dream mode, the record player still playing our song, the bed still in the corner. but this time i'm not alone...you are with me, cradling my head in the crook of your elbow. inside you, my fingers trace your red velvet lining. the sound of your moans drown out everything. at this moment, nothing else matters.

but i've forgotten that you suddenly developed stage fright and left me alone to improvise a meaningless monologue -- but nothing comes out of my mouth and instead i sit up to peer down at the audience who doesn't exist because either the light in my eye is blinding...or they're really not there. save me, intermission.

"oh, broken hearted melody
wont you bring [her] back to me
sing to [her] until [she] hears,
for when [she] returns no more will [she] be,
a broken hearted melody."

it is some hours later and the streetcar named desire has stopped clanging past my window. this black phone has rung not once in the past few days, or when it has, i haven't heard it. me, still the silhouette on the bed in the corner of this candle lit room.

i'm remembering the dream i had in the last scene, but somehow it seems real, because i can see your shape in the crumpled white sheets, and i can smell you on my pillow. no evidence of you is found though, except for these things -- and the scent of your red velvet lining lingering on my fingers.

curtain.



All illustrations and writing Copyright 2007 The Author except where otherwise noted.
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