He, She, The Runner

The marquee stands erect, white shining against the night,
Inside, people dance without worry or angst,
Leaving aside unsociable talking points to celebrate a birthday,
All bar two, who are missing from the throng,
Their beer bottles missing amidst the empties…

He sinks deeper into depression, hiding in plain sight,
Doing what he hates most because it is all he knows,
Hating the reputation he has inadvertently fostered,
A drunk, a thief, with no morals or cares,
This is not him at all, yet they berate his mistakes for all to judge…

She finds herself back in a situation from the past,
One she thought had been resolved by the passing of time,
But not enough has lapsed, allowing for her lover’s relapse,
Making her mascara run onto her cheeks one more time,
And she seeks help from a room of people who really do not care…

He sits in the back garden, outside the buzz and tumble of the marquee,
On a swinging seat that he hopes will swing his sorrows away;
It fails to, and he searches for solace in every can of Strongbow,
Finding nothing but a deeper hole than the one he had already been in,
There is no arrogance here…

She passes through the bodies of the party goers,
Seemlessly, like a ghost, transparency and sadness unnoticed by the ossified,
She heads for the front room, where jackets and a piano rest,
And plays the saddest, loneliest chords she knows,
As she attempts to make one final decision for better or worse…

He thinks escape is the answer; she thinks an end is the answer.
The runner in-between withdraws from a lack of better logic.