Don’t hate the players, hate the game.
Plastered smiles on frozen faces both ask,
“Do you still love me?”
The smiles do not fade, the crooked smile of the Cheshire cat,
The Houdini mask, the mystery.
“Do you still love me?” they ask again.
The answer does not come, because they both regret the truth.
The truth of the lies, the drift apart that they suffered the eternal silence between them never shattering.
“Why don’t you answer?” the smiles murmur,
A cat ready to launch at a throat, a weakness, a trapped mouse.
What is the truth really? The answer we wait for?
Did they ever love each other? Were they ever close?
Was it just a charade that they both played?
The mirror reflection ripples, the smile flickers as the record turns over.
The c**k their head to the side and answer in unison,
“Of course”
A stalemate to the endless game.
Life is a charade, and we are all very good at it.
-Catherine Proulx
any suggestions are welcome
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Diary of Catherine.
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