You know about love songs, don’t you? The way they’re meant to capture a feeling, say, about the way you look tonight?Or the way you wear your hat — you know, the sort of thing they can’t take away from you?Except they do take it away, don’t they? Time and tide, vice and vicissitude, the grim reality of reality, they all conspire to drive you to wind up like Joan —emotionally closed, endlessly frustrated —and her husband Harry, who views disagreement as the essence of conversation. Maybe they were in love once, but… well, it could be worse. They could be like Joan’s brother Beane, a man upon whom the walls are closing in and for whom the lights are flickering out, so trapped in emotional solitude is he. How trapped is he? When Molly, a manic pixie dream girl who borders on the psychotic, comes to plunder his self-assigned cell, she’s shocked to learn that it holds no closet of hidden sentiments. Shocked, and more than a little bit fascinated. What follows in John Kolvenbach’s play about the lifesaving power of love in the face of the aforementioned reality might feel a bit precious were it not for the enormous charm and charisma of the play’s two actresses, the engaging way the actors play off of them, and the inventive staging of director Claire Simba. (The entwining swirl of physical motions that accompany a late-stage recounting of The Night We Met redeem the scene’s overripe dialogue.) In the end, the play itself is a bit like one of those famous love songs, capturing a feeling you may never have actually felt, but one which you nevertheless recognize, or perhaps aspire to —“the secret ingredient that makes you think things are possible.”