Blackout Breathing

The house lights drop, slide

into a wash of charcoal and moth wings.

Seats vanish into a wide black pit—

the kind of dark that presses

against your lids

before the first flicker.

A low hum rolls underfoot,

projector teeth grinding silent gears,

waiting like a beast held just at the leash.

The screen waits,

a blank slate swallowing breath,

a silence that tastes like something unfinished.

I sit still,

finger tracing the armrest’s rough edge,

a moment hung between here and the start—

waiting for the shape

of light to break the cold.

That dark is a promise

of stories folded sharp,

a quiet before the world cracks open.