who would be interested in me doing a full fic in this free verse poetry style... it takes a long time (bc i suck at it) but i am trying to get better at writing poetry and wanted to do a dps fic so that fits yk
Thundershower dampens my shoes.
Thursday, time 1700.
The Orpheum looms, its lights dimmed low.
Hands, my hands, grasp another.
“Playbill is 20 pounds.”
Hand yields the note, crumpled in nervous fingers.
Hand devotes to teller.
Hand returns to the grasp of woman, steady now.
I hang her jacket in the coat room,
Hanging her scent like a curtain on my breath.
She slips into the booth,
Her eyes cast down, her voice soft, “French 75, please.”
Order is up, two straws, one glass—
The glass between us,
Phantom of the Opera.
Ballet is an art, I decide, like love—
Graceful, fragile, yet binding.
The first act begins:
Hand trembles, dews, I shake them free.
“Darling, nervous? Why?”
I shake my head.
Hand bounces, bad tell, bluff better.
Hand stops, mind is in control.
Is mind controlled?
Mind remembers actor.
Actor shuffled of this mortal coil.
I am alone.
Hand shakes, “I shall take leave.”
Bathroom: tile, sink, bench, stalls.
Sign: Men’s Room (Actors and Stagecrew Only)
I am neither, but I sit on the bench.
Tears shouldn’t happen, they do.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Thirty minutes.
The door creaks.
A man enters, ballet dancer?
Pointe shoes in hand, muscles taut.
He stares: “Stage crew?”
I shake my head.
He sees the evidence. Stupid tears.
“What is the matter?”
The question hangs,
Suspended between us, fragile.
I open my mouth, but no sound comes.
I want to speak, to explain,
But the words—
They are lost, swallowed whole by grief.
Instead, I just nod,
A tear slipping down.
He watches me,
Then steps closer,
Hand out, offering a tissue.
“Dmitri,” he says,
“Let it out.”
I don’t speak.
I just take the tissue.
He lingers a moment,
Arm out,
Like he might pull me into something I can’t reach.
Then he withdraws,
Quiet,
A brief weight in the room.
Dmitri doesn’t ask again.
He doesn’t push.
He just stands there,
And for the first time tonight—
I don’t feel quite so alone.
I stand to leave.
Dmitri’s hand on my shoulder.
“Backstage.”
I follow.
Through the dark hall.
The woman’s smile fading.
Smoke in the wind.
He sits me down.
Water.
Jacket.
A weight lifted.
“Who are you with?”
His voice quiet.
I blink.
“Woman.”
But I’m somewhere else.
I don’t care.
Dmitri nods.
“Clear your mind.”
I close my eyes.
But I can’t.
The weight’s too much.
His voice.
also bonus poem loosely inspired might be in fic idk:
To love is to grieve, and in love, to grieve is to die.
And in this life, my longing to cry out in anguish is still.
So, my fairest love, I shall cherish you no more nor vie—
Not for affection, nor lost adoration, nor time to fill.
For to love is to grieve, and to grieve is to die.
To love is to grieve, and to grieve is to die.
Yet still, I long, like a thief in the dark,
For a tether to bind me to life, to the sky,
For some fleeting warmth, some love’s spark.
But lo, the heart I once cherished is gone,
A void now carved where affection once bloomed.
How could I seek the touch of another’s dawn,
When the light of my soul is forever consumed?
A tie, a bond, I long for no more—
Not for warmth, not for passion’s sweet fire.
For the soul I lost, it carved me to the core,
And in its loss, I feel naught but desire.
Thus, I make a vow to my broken heart:
No love, no affection, no tender embrace.
Let time flow, and let others depart,
I shall walk this world, a shadowed face.
For in loving, I die, and in dying, I live,
And I have no more to give.
