Half-dark/House-lit

The softest landing
His jet curls
And he smells like a theatre
The memory of a smoke machine
Coloured cellophane squares
And old pan lights
Always too hot
Hasty hands held under
Mixing desks in the half-dark
House-lit home of expression
Kissing in the wings 
Headset microphones muffled
Against libidinous breaths 
In ears all-too-ready to receive