I speak not of the sun neither speak to her for the winter it has left in my care. My conversations with the cold snap and the polar vortex had gone stale.

The sun and I had our falling out and if these words should find their way to her doorstep, let her know I don’t miss her warmth. I don’t leap out of the bed to tug the curtain and let her silver light fill my room and let the motes dance in her rays like I used to.

I shudder at her supple shadow swirling, flowing and flitting about, and the halo she wears petrifies me. Her pestilential disposition burns through my walls fortified with years of heartaches. For these, we must part ways.

All the seconds that we've wasted
Looking at each other's faces,
Then one day we said, "Hello."
Never close the curtain on this show.

We made friends, then we made love.
We made war, you were above.
You said you were letting go.
You closed the curtain on this show.

The glistening in your corner eye
Becomes a tear that you cry.
I ask you why you have to go.
You close the curtain on this show.

Wall-to-wall the city beats
With hearts and footfalls on the streets.
I'm alone now, they all know.
You've closed the curtain on this show.

Like veins in arms, the avenues
Are winding anywhere, but you.
I wander with no place to go.
You've closed the curtain on this show.

Maybe someday I'll be seen,
Floating stillness in the stream.
Tangled in a bed of stone,
Having closed the curtain on this show.

behind the curtain
is uncertain
flowers and claps
a window perhaps
or just a glass
for a glance
into the past
after all
it is behind
it’s this wall
that makes me small
it’s this mind
that makes me fall

the moon chased me through cities
growing more as days go by

I could not escape its gaze
through foggy curtained windows

I always thought I was made for
the night but as it turned out

the moon burns in me more
than the sun ever could

For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No 'Brava!', no applause.

An unrehearsed performance,
By a monodramatist,
A solo show, a pantomime,
An improvised burlesque.

Critics stand in groups debating,
The value of my work,
They gossip in the aisles,
The playhouse now a kirk.

My eulogy their invention,
My obituary the prize,
The best review I've ever had,
A mix of humour and soft lies.

I have played the loving daughter,
The honest aunt *****,
The independent sister,
The true and loyal friend.

The sympathetic neighbour,
I have played the errant niece,
The mentor, guide, and confidant,
The ***** and the tease.

In truth, I am a diva,
Living mostly in her head,
But this remains unmentioned,
In a tribute to the dead.

Once rose bouquets beribboned,
From the greatest and the good,
Now a solitary arrangement,
On a coffin made of wood.

For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No garlands, no applause.

But wait, I see my error,
As indeed these things exist,
But not for me to comment on,
Nor as I would have wished.

For my aspect is fair frozen,
I cannot turn the page,
My performance has now ended,
And I have left the stage.