Two households, both alike in dignity.
All the world's a stage.
There is no spotlight where she stands. All the flamboyant costumes and the glittering dresses are cast aside. The heels she once donned on her delicate feet are thrown off backstage. There is no make-up on her face, the ridiculous rogue wiped violently from her cheeks, the powder put away and the lipstick faded. Her eyes are cast outward to her audience, the opera house lifting her spirit. The seats are empty and so are the booths but, she sees her audience; they smile at her, sickly-sweet curves of their lips urging her on. Tsk tsk, she hears them speak, cruelly judging her lack of poise. Ghosts of this opera house watch her as she executes pirouettes across the wooden floors, laughing to her own melody.
Frailty, thy name is woman.
Thoughts descend from the sculpted ceilings; flickering in her eyes as she spins and her effervescent nature shines through - beaming in the reality of the sun in the stained glass windows. Her face twists in pain, smudged like a destroyed Bellini, a broken Botticelli. Her body falls to the ground, shrieking. The body twists, distorted and broken (much like the remains of her heart) and she cries out, aching, groping at the dappled sun rays. Reality unconsciously blurs as the audience begins to walk away, much like the rest of the world. Cruelty molded into the shapes and silhouettes of people, laughing, hurting (thinking). She begins to bleed and then she smells like aphrodisiac, creating a tempest with the aromas of femininity.
So wise, so young, they say do never live long.
He enters; his one-two-three steps are evident with the sounds of the stage. He arabesques himself into her thoughts, dancing gracefully as her mind reels, pulling the dreamer’s dimension into their false reality. He holds up the strings of fate, urging her to tug on them, pushing her to change the world as she sees fit. He lets her create their (crazy) little world where nobody is harmed and hearts are never ever broken. When they do say that the two are too young to love and too old to make-believe, they reject the idea, sharing kisses underneath the merciless rain and feeling heat on skin when winter turns over the sun. They forever redesign the concepts of tragic stage love, manipulating it to seem more real than it is. His eyes demand hers to waltz with his and she acquiesces, the drip-dropping of her tears only adding to their beautiful music. She wears a twisted smile as she lies against his chest, his lips capturing hers without fear, without hesitation. A secret rendezvous shadowed by the cowering night, cloaking their little engagement.
“I love you.”
One that loved not wisely but too well.
There is no spotlight where she stands. All the flamboyant costumes and the glittering dresses are cast aside. The heels she once donned on her delicate feet are thrown off backstage. There is no make-up on her face, the ridiculous rogue wiped violently from her cheeks, the powder put away and the lipstick faded. Her eyes are cast outward to her audience, the opera house lifting her spirit. The seats are empty and so are the booths but, she sees her audience; they smile at her, sickly-sweet curves of their lips urging her on. Tsk tsk, she hears them speak, cruelly judging her lack of poise. Ghosts of this opera house watch her as she executes pirouettes across the wooden floors, laughing to her own melody.
Frailty, thy name is woman.
Thoughts descend from the sculpted ceilings; flickering in her eyes as she spins and her effervescent nature shines through - beaming in the reality of the sun in the stained glass windows. Her face twists in pain, smudged like a destroyed Bellini, a broken Botticelli. Her body falls to the ground, shrieking. The body twists, distorted and broken (much like the remains of her heart) and she cries out, aching, groping at the dappled sun rays. Reality unconsciously blurs as the audience begins to walk away, much like the rest of the world. Cruelty molded into the shapes and silhouettes of people, laughing, hurting (thinking). She begins to bleed and then she smells like aphrodisiac, creating a tempest with the aromas of femininity.
So wise, so young, they say do never live long.
He enters; his one-two-three steps are evident with the sounds of the stage. He arabesques himself into her thoughts, dancing gracefully as her mind reels, pulling the dreamer’s dimension into their false reality. He holds up the strings of fate, urging her to tug on them, pushing her to change the world as she sees fit. He lets her create their (crazy) little world where nobody is harmed and hearts are never ever broken. When they do say that the two are too young to love and too old to make-believe, they reject the idea, sharing kisses underneath the merciless rain and feeling heat on skin when winter turns over the sun. They forever redesign the concepts of tragic stage love, manipulating it to seem more real than it is. His eyes demand hers to waltz with his and she acquiesces, the drip-dropping of her tears only adding to their beautiful music. She wears a twisted smile as she lies against his chest, his lips capturing hers without fear, without hesitation. A secret rendezvous shadowed by the cowering night, cloaking their little engagement.
“I love you.”
One that loved not wisely but too well.
She, like the perfectly crafted Renoir he remembered, disintegrates in his arms. The wind picks her up and carries her away, her tears no longer staining the ground she acted on nor the white satin of his opera shirt. She withers away, her sweet disposition disappearing from his lips; her doll face wiped from his memory. He desperately holds to this dream, the dream where they are too young to love - much too young. He grips his playbill tightly before gasping in heartache. She has finally spread her wings - she has finally risen above the clouds. He kisses her ring languidly before standing, proceeding to walk slowly and silently out of the opera house, exiting a final time.
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