This Wine Will Stain, Sibyl Vane - Tonight she's Juliet. I read her name on the playbill that I use to hide my face in the front row of her last show in this forsaken theatre. The other night she was Rosalind, and in my dreams I was Orlando, her lover, her innocence discovered in her soft cries. We had no lines. Let our bodies do the talking. How the whole crowd loved her, loving me. But tonight they'll turn their backs as she truly loves for the first time. Give me your hands of ivory, and I'll play your fingers like piano keys, and we'll hear a melody so soft and sweet. Give me your ears, and I'll sing a tune of hollow suns, and a thousand moons circling a dying star. The lights are fading out. The curtains rise we're in Verona. The silence quickly ends, and I stir as I await her enchanting voice to break it. Her Romeo has seen better days and, though he's plain, she'll look right through him, and woo him with her undying love as she wooed us. An angel must be moving her every breath. The lights glowing from her eyes are entrancing. She's bathing in radiant white in a dark, abysmal Hades. Give me your hands of ivory, and I'll play your fingers like piano keys, and we'll hear a melody so soft and sweet. Give me your ears, and I'll sing a tune of hollow suns, and a thousand moons circling a dying star. I've seen her die at least a dozen times. She never looked as beautiful as her tragedy. My Ophelia drowned in the River of Lethe. Tonight she's Juliet. She drinks her death with no one watching, and I won't be there. I can't be there to give her my lips, a poison kiss. The fourth wall breaks, and there's nothing left. The silence returns and it will always be too soon. I've spilled my glass of cheap red wine. The curtains fall one last time, eclipsing her my dead star my dead star my dead star my dead star.