day/poem 9

-- rewrite --

sitting in those plush seats
popcorn adorned, drink stain sticky
the lights go down, screen comes alive
opening credits roll

and he strides onto the scene
the hero
all swagger and iliad defined
every bad boy image that ever was
silver screen perfect, impossible

and i can feel you wishing yourself into his shoes
momentary bicep flex barely brushing your sleeve
your sleeve barely touching my arm
your touch barely reaching my heart

or maybe it’s me wishing you into that role
wishing you wanted to be more
than you ever really could
wanting your wishes to be
unrealistic and worth dreaming of

or maybe it’s me wishing us into some scene
technicolour sunset, all perfect reds and shimmer light heat haze
walking into it, arms entwined
using words like ‘love’ and ‘forever’
as though they hadn’t been learnt by rote
all our lines learnt by heart
perfect take every time

sitting in the cheap seats
silence as the story plays out
and i can feel me wishing us back to the casting stage
first read of the script
and taking it back to the writers
our red penned dissatisfaction
at the death of us before the final scene

closing credits role
and through the applause of others
carried away by the lies they’ve been fed
i can feel us wishing away
i can feel us slipping away
i can’t feel us