These sleeping dogs won't lie

Lara, you took a photo of us... still in our singlets and tights, my hands on your shoulder, covered in white paint and glowing from the joy of rehersal.
You had washed your face, but still smelt faintly of sweat, paint, polished wood, carpet and the electrical-fire scent of the bright stage lights.

You are loved. Thank you.
"Fork"