Wince

In the hush of an empty theatre,
a sudden note makes the audience wince,
a sharp, bright sting that pricks the throat,
like a splinter of glass caught in the throat’s seam.

The lights flicker, a pallid flare,
and every heart draws a quiet breath,
as pain, unasked, threads through the marrow,
reminding flesh that joy can be thin.

Yet in that fleeting grimace lies a truth—
that to feel is to be alive,
and even a wince can be a kind of grace,
a silent applause for the fragile human.