Curtain Call

I stand here numbed by the least expected;
ignorant of your presence
as the curve of your chest
warms to the curve of my left shoulder.

I see none but the shadows before me,
dancing an act of you by my side.

I do not hear the elegant scrape of metal
as your shears become two knives.
I do not feel the air thicken
as your arms raise as if to embrace me.
I do not flinch, my lips do not curl, my eyes do not shut-
as one blade, sliding stealthily through my back-
meets the second blade as it passes through my ribcage.

My knees do not buckle and I do not bow my head;
I wish not to see the pool of blood-cell hearts
gathering at our feet: yours weary from our travels.

It is only when you say my name;
only when I hear the emptiness in my own two syllables-
that I take a slight turn of my head
and let my tears escape, a sigh release, my breath quiver-
and my knees give way as your might binds with gravity
and creates again the shears that pry my heart from whole.

It is now that I hear the elegant scrape of metal
as your knives, now stained, reunite.
It is now that I feel the air thicken
as your arms lower in denial of my embrace.
It is now that I flinch, my lips curl, my eyes fall heavy-
as your daggered eyes, sliding peircingly through my soul-
no longer bare the ability
to tell me that you are in love with me.

It is now that I turn to the shadows once more,
begging with only a strained whisper-
"Call Scene...call scene...", I cry in a cold shiver.

And it is Now...that I attempt ignorance,
as your act does not reel a curtain call.