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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Melodrama · #1669848

a cracked and yellowing copy of Casablanca
runs, sometimes, in a little theater
just behind my heart (around the corner
from the moment we met); Rick sits
embedded in quicksand, elbows holding
the table down, pouring endless whiskey in
to douse the smoldering pile of memories'
ashes on the floor of his stomach.

    piano keys are tinkling, constantly
    just out of earshot; Sam, slumped
    over the keyboard, elbows-to-keys,
    palm-to-cheek, unshackled, supporting
    the weight of Rick's slack jaw
    and faraway stare, for
    (never really) obvious, yet quite
    inescapable, reasons

the palest light radiates
from her face; her fairytale faith
in impossibly happy endings is cut
into the lines of her suit; romance (surviving
in the face of life's beatings and war's
grand follies) paints her lips; belief
in the magic
of a song, is an apology
in her eyes

    poor Sam (stretched tight between two
    poles, he caresses their memories, fingers
    the keys, takes his silver,
    and never wavers, he)
    picks out the piece he was born to play,
    the sword only Rick can pull
    from the stone of broken hearts; and slowly turns,
    eyes woken with disbelief
    and joy....as time's stage
    door creaks
    open, and the curtain goes up

a cracked and yellowing copy of
love's tragedy chatters in my ear, occasionally
demanding that i prove i'll still
take the risks, knowing the finale
is not a fairytale, but a foggy play
about passion and pain
and silent, wet departures.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1669848