Before anything happens

The house lights fade.

The screen stays black.

You're in a room with forty people

who don't know you're there.

You don't know any of them are there.

The emergency exit sign bleeds red

onto the sticky floor,

and you think about how many feet

have stood on this spot,

how many people have sat

where you're sitting,

feeling alone in the dark,

waiting for the light to tell them

what to feel.

Nothing has started yet.