Standing Ovation

There could have been a mistranslation
in the movement between the page
and the text, the light that lit
could only obscure the stage.
Line please. Write that down.
There were undeniable clouds of smoke
and ashes in paper cups.
By the doorway to the exit,
the cans full of sodden earth
used as props to let the wind in.
You were the voice I came to see
every night. Every night I touched
your hand and called it mine.
Kissed your fingers to prevent a word
from being spoken. And still
the succession of events kept me
from keeping you. The lights came up,
and there you were, somehow not
yourself. You took a bow, and I stood up.
I wanted you back in the night.