ghost light

it’s the space.
standing a hundred feet above the world
gaps between beams beneath your feet,
one misstep and you’d freefall.

it’s the light.
catching the dust swirling everywhere,
we all leave our stories on things we touch
and no one wants to wipe it away.

it’s the color.
the red velvet of the two-story curtains
and green jealousy over black lace,
it’s feeling blue and standing in yellow light.

it’s the music.
notes soaring into the catwalks
harmonies dancing through the seats
a chorus of joy swirling in midair.

it’s the people.
a pile of friendships overlapping on the couch
legs dangling at the edge of the stage
and someone’s laugh echoing in the wings.

I miss the questions,
the ones I always had the answers for,
because life is simpler here, like
“Am I allowed to eat in costume?”
“Time check please?”
“Would someone run lines with me?”
“What fell backstage?”
“Can I borrow someone’s script?”
“Does anyone have a mint?”
“Where is my (prop)?”
“Do you have a pencil?”

I miss the weight of the headset
the microphone by my lips
waiting for the phrases that
I don’t use anywhere else, like
“Quiet backstage!”
“Ten minutes until places.”
“Move downstage left.”
“Standby cue four……and go.”
“I need you back onstage!”
“Can you fly that back out?”
“No eating in costume.”
“House is open….”
“I need you to mute his mic.”
“Can you enter from upstage right?”
“Gather for notes!”
“Find your light….”
“Places, everyone!”

and my favorite of them all:


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