A murmur moves under a velvet dome,

A rustle like the turning of a script.

Two hearts step out from smoke and fume,

To find themselves alone.

Come on into the Liebentheatre,

Make space, the curtains breathe.

Lights grow warm,

But a rift begins between perfect beats.

From tightened throats, a bitter vapor climbs.

Not born of flames, but endless restraint.

It smells of swallowed words,

From times gone by.

Smoke in the sky,

While they smile through pain.

Love, hate, restraint and acceptance,

Four voices in a fractured refrain.

No blaze is seen, just sulking embers,

Fed not by bliss but a restless need,

It warms, yet writes in scars and tears.

It’s a flame that teaches us to bleed.

The flame burns out,

Only fumes arise.

Blinding us from “What is”,

With “What could have been”.

The curtains fall, but smoke remains,

They leave the Liebentheatre*,

remade by what they cannot name.

*Lieben is love in German, usually used for a more committed, less casual love