Intermission**

You set the stage; the lights are on.

But the reflection you see isn’t your own but me—

the mirror of your youth.

Looking at your vanity,

you highlight the flaws I have begged—in front of the world—to bury deep.

Click.

Click.

Click.

You walk on the stage,

your performance of a lifetime.

The love and devotion I know are true.

I see it from the past, still replaying the scenes in my mind.

I crave the intermission—

a break from the darkness that hides me from the spotlight.

A voluntary choice.

I see the curtains rise again,

the second half—

the new scenes—

I grasp at it like the last ticket in a fully booked theater,

reluctantly hoping to feel it in my soul once again,

like the performance I saw that bound me to you when I was young.

But as I watch you move, disappearing from view,

I back into the corner, away from sight,

an inconvenient stain on your perfect image.

What can I do

to become the you

you want me to be?