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The Play

The fairy dust was still on her hair … with just an air of the ridiculous … glittering …

Heels just a bit too high … clothes just a yard past disheveled … and a will long since running on empty …

And there were his hands … those strong masculine hands … worn by sun and dissolution … hard as nails … soft as sunshine …

Crossed as if to say enough … put away the makeup … this is getting much too real …

The play was meant to entertain us … not define us … yet see how we practice to deceive … and so are caught … in a web much too carefully made …

How it ties and tortures …

No more dust love … it hurts my eyes … and wounds my soul … I would have none of it …

Only more of you …

So no more fairy stories and fair thee wells … only what hands may craft … in the winter of this … our finest discontent …

No more tales and no more feints … no more seeming so …

Only your eyes and careless embrace … only this memory made …

Your sun … my moon … our mystery …

All made plain … made in madness … made true …

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