2-14 Mr. Producer and I Say Goodnight

imagine a stage,
end of a play,
or the beginning,

there is a couch,
leather red or white,
or brown, but leather,
to the right, tiny shot glasses,
elegant crystal afterthoughts,
of whiskey, or bourban, or scotch,
to the left, only,

the cello plays.

I do not move,
from where the buttons,
have undone themselves,
in pink, gray, and black,
stretched out, as liquid oil paint,
drips from my forearms,
I am looking at the ceiling,
where there should be chandeliers,
diamonds, but there is only

his head, dark and resting,
in the denouement,
on my chest, his eyes,
lashes thick, are closed,
listening to my unpaintable heart,
harmonizing, he is layered,
clothes, gray, folded navy blue,
blankets to his thin form, which has found
mine,

the cello plays,
holds, one last long single note,
low into the light fading,

we do not move,
in this last moment,
in this first moment,
we do not move,
for you, we are

still.