The Masquerade

A masquerade ball for the ages!
Tuxedoed and ball-gowned
we picked up our masks:
I wore Comedy,
and you, Tragedy.
What perfect foils
for the perfect couple.
When we arrived
we fell to drinking,
as is the custom for people
hiding life behind the tension-lines
on their faces.

And I, being glad
that the alcohol and friends
and the bantering laughs
had me pinned into the moment,
reveled in the respite
from everything outside it.
I prescribed myself
that usual over-the-counter remedy
of beer and a friendly crowd
between her and I.
I was the spitting image of Puck
(though as the night wore on
I became a bit more like Nick Bottom).

And when they found you
crying in the bathroom,
they pulled off your mask
to see your face
and the pain within.
As if they hoped
they wouldn't see Tragedy
upon tragedy. What fools,
who came to Macbeth
expecting survivors!

It's odd to realize
that we hid our faces
behind our souls that night.