So there she was again, sitting there.
Just sitting there with perfect lighting landing on her cheeks,
soft margarine in her plate and two cups of cold coffee beside her.
"I've seen this before" she said, "I've seen all of this before",
she had seen my love hiding between newspapers and decrepit politicians,
between power ballads, prescription drugs and many plane tickets,
yes you have, you've seen this before woman.
She sat there waiting for me, waiting for a look and a fake smile,
wondering about my weird posture and my banged up moccasins,
taking her time to deconstruct my anger, my sweetness, my charm.
"I remember these walls, that little dog and those back aches" she said to me.
Her plate untouched and the wine running out,
as I read the obituaries, lamenting all of this anonymous departures,
she used to hate this sick custom of mine.
The canned laughter is ready to go and the seats are all filled,
we walk into the kitchen and argue about bills and healthy food,
the neighbour playing the same records and the hammer of this city breaking me,
"It would be nice to create memories" was her line,
instead she went with "I need to get out, I need to leave".
The audience sat quiet and still,
the producer worried, the director gasped in front of the crew
and the cameraman maintained the frame,
I improvised and decided to let loose my favourite paragraph of all:
The people got up and found the exit,
the lights are dimmed and the cameras are off.
Crew call will be at 8, I will see you then,
for now I'll just become quiet if I may.