And then it feels as if I were the understudy
wondering if I’ll ever swoop in and take the spot.
Or perhaps a stagehand preparing for changeover.
Clearing the way, shuffling all the props.
Or perhaps even the prompter,
reading those lines,
telling her what to say
and him when to kiss her.
Where standeth my stage, where shineth my footlight?
My part, fit like a glove, my unsurpassable performance.
My encore. My rerun. My remake. My magnum opus.
My love story.
What a drama.