After the curtain

And that was it. We were love.
Two chairs, several acts, and all the silence in between.

It felt unusual to post this here. I usually share poems, fragments, small reflections. A play is different. Plays are meant for the stage, for bodies and breath, for silences that stretch too long. The be seen and experienced. But still, I felt it belonged here because it is not so far from what I always write. Presence and absence. Love and silence. What is said and what is never said.

Letting it out act by act was strange. Like lifting a curtain in the morning and in the evening and lowering it again. Strange, but also good. Writing it was heavy at times, it pressed on me, but it was also a relief to give it form and let it stand on its own. It weren’t the words that were heavy to write, but the format of the play that made it hard.

I do not know what it was for you. Maybe too stark, maybe unsettling, maybe exactly what you needed to read. Maybe too shallow. Maybe it was nothing at all. But I hope at some point you felt it. The pause. And you heard it. The scrape of a chair. The ache of closeness that never quite closes.

For me, sharing it here was a way of letting go of this little experiment.

The curtain is down now. I don’t know if I will ever write another play. But I know this:

We were love.