Theatre

We have stumbled over minutes of a minute of amour
An afternoon of hazelnuts and coffee and velour
In bathrobes lilac, pink, and black, and then azure.
For I have contemplated keeping all arrangements all the same
But every time I stumble I appear an altered dame.
For we are creatures here at evening
Gone by morning in our grieving,
I of him and you of her,
But at nights we enter worlds of theatrical absurds.
The comedy begins in undertones sardonic, 
And when detriments sardonic turn neurotic then morose,
We approach a universe more sexually platonic
In a muddle of a meaning of expressions overdosed.
Miscommunications, as you bear your soul to hell
In the middle of the night as your whispers ring like bells.
Whispers, susurrations, common only to my ears,
Susurrations foreign to a foreigner of tears
Who has never heard your laughter, piercing, brittle, unexposed,
As I cry out how I love you and your vacillation shows.
As you cannot refute it, waver only just the same,
As you at last repeat it, lifeless, enervated, tame.
As you hold me in your arms and tell me oh I love you too
As your morning glassy eyes tell me I’ve forgotten you.