The actor sits, uncomfortable
In the shifting green room chair.
Methodically smearing the thick, oiled mask
Across his pock marked cheeks.
Pressing, filling the cracks and threads
That web from eyes and mouth.
Each performance... another line.

His mind wanders to the auditorium,
To one seat in particular.
The one he knows now would be vacant.

No, stop it.

He curses himself for allowing the thought.
Hold it together. Remember your cues.
A reflected, berating return in the mirror,
Watches his own trembled hands,
Cover the spill of black tracks on his cheeks.

Focus.

He makes his way to the wings,
Past the bellow of final directions
And nervous, whispered encouragements.
To the soundtrack of the murmured mass
Behind the heavy curtain,
And the short phrases of overture,
In bite sized rehearsal,
Plucked and drawn.
Here he takes his last real breath,
Before the trained patterns kick in.

Don't think about it.

In that black compartment,
In the dim, blue...