Look at her,

so bright and beautiful standing there in her white silken dress.

Like a star against the dark velvet curtain

she stands where mere hours ago

the actors' voices reverberated as their feet,

in incomprehensible dances toward destiny,

tapped messages on the amber wood.

She waits for you, Oberon: your Titania.

Suddenly you wish you knew Morse code.

Surely it would be easier, you think,

to tap out the message than force your lips

around words long unsaid.

"I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U" your feet could sing

while you watch her eyes for rejection, yours expressionless

and your heart unbreakable, so you imagine.

But no, you realize as you stare,

hidden away in the shadows of the empty theater

beyond her searching gaze.

Even then she would know.

She would see through your little games and know

she could break your heart, if she wanted to.

And it's been so long. It's been so long

since you told her you love her

that you don't know anymore what she'd do if you did.

You wrote her the note, that night, and slipped it

into the pocket of her dress while she wasn't looking,

wrote for her to meet you here afterwards

where the velvet whispers in the silence.

Only now you can't remember why.

Your carefully laid plan to win her back disintegrates

until you know you won't tell her, know you can't,

not tonight, not when she's standing there,

your heart in her hands and your soul twisted between her fingers

like the wedding ring you never gave her.

Instead you wait and watch as the hope in her eyes grows dim again

until your heart burns in her palm—she doesn't realize you can feel it

but it burns with fire and ice and something like heartbreak.

But it can't be that; you know it can't be that.

You blame it on indigestion.

Finally, to the dusty chiming of a clock she turns away,

her leaving footsteps echoing within you

like the heartbeat you can't help but wish you never had.