CASABLANCA br br a cracked and yellowing copy of Casablanca br runs, sometimes, in a little theater br just behind my heart (around the corner br from the moment we met): Rick sits br embedded in quicksand, elbows holding br the table down, pouring endless whiskey in br to douse the smoldering pile of memories' br ashes on the floor of his stomach. br br piano keys are tinkling, constantly br just out of earshot; Sam, slumped br over the keyboard, elbows-to-keys, br palm-to-cheek, unshackled, supporting br the weight of Rick's slack jaw br and faraway stare, for br (never really) obvious, yet quite br inescapable, reasons br br the palest light radiates br from her face; her fairytale faith br in impossibly happy endings is cut br into the lines of her suit; romance (surviving br in the face of life's beatings and war's br grand follies) paints her lips; belief br in the magic br of a song, is an apology br in her eyes br br poor Sam (stretched tight between two br poles, he caresses their memories, fingers br the keys, takes his silver, br and never wavers, he) br picks out the piece he was born to play, br the sword only Rick can pull br from the stone of broken hearts; and slowly turns, br eyes woken with disbelief br and joy....as time's stage br door creaks br open, and the curtain goes up br br a cracked and yellowing copy of br love's tragedy chatters in my ear, occasionally br demanding that i prove i'll still br take the risks, knowing the finale br is not a fairytale, but a foggy play br about passion and pain br and silent, wet departures. br br br br br br br © Copyright 2010 christo (UN: christo13 at Writing.Com) . All rights reserved.