He stood behind the curtain

He stood behind the curtain. The deep red folds cast shadows upon his face, Concealing the length of his hair, The shape of his beard.
He could hear the breaths of the audience.
The curtain rose— And a deafening roar Filled the space so completely That all he could do Was curse the stage And wait for it to quiet.
The pianist began to play.
They fell silent.
It grew easier— And soon, he adapted.
After a few pieces, He even enjoyed their applause.
But of course— He suffered from forgetfulness, And this was both His first and last performance.
His only talent Was the flawless execution of notes, Something his manager understood all too well.
Midway through the recital, Another figure stepped onto the stage— A violinist, hair falling long at her shoulders.
She was not beautiful, But her smile— It was the only smile That existed for the pianist That night.
He had forgetfulness, after all.
The next piece— Their duet at its peak.
The applause was so thunderous That even the ceiling trembled.
Following that piece, The pianist grew proud, And began a solo performance.
Applause. More applause.
He played the final piece— Its arrangement pulling his mind Back to the duet.
It didn’t seem so bad— To have the violinist remain, To accompany him once more.
The recital ended. The curtain fell.
He could still hear their breath— This time, Even closer.
The curtain fell. This time, He did not fear.
It was over. And he thought of the music That he would forget in just a few hours.
Of the piece only he could perform— The one that made them fly.
Of the piece where her smile Had distracted him— Where fortune had saved him, His foot trapped on the second pedal, Undetected.
Of the piece That made him despise them— Those pig-like creatures Applauding with their short hands.
And the final piece, Where he chose solitude.
His task was complete.
Nothing else mattered.
Perhaps tomorrow, His manager would give him leave— And then, There would be nothing left to forget.