Waiting for the one cue that never comes

The understudy waits in the wings of my teeth,

lips a heavy curtain, never drawn.

He has memorized every line I’ve swallowed,

the sharp-edged words, the granite pleas.

There’s a monologue of fury, a soliloquy of want,

a quiet, desperate verse for a hand to hold.

Sometimes, I feel him pacing, a caged thing,

rattling the bars of my jaw.

He’d tell you about the landscapes I build in sleep,

worlds painted in colors I don’t dare to name awake.

He’d confess the petty jealousies, the rust-eaten grudges,

the times I’ve smiled while my spirit screamed.

He’d speak of the love that is not a grand fire,

but a pilot light, blue and low,

terrified of any sudden gust of wind.

He’d ask if you, too, have a silent performer,

a ghost on the tongue,

waiting for the one cue that never comes.