The word 'fine'

How often it slips out, a shield,

casual, careless—just 'fine.'

Hiding a storm or a field

of bruised petals on an unseen vine.

You asked and I shrugged, a brittle

laugh, caught in the rust of regret;

a cluttered desk, a note, a riddle,

tucked under piles of what’s left unsaid.

Fine as in fog on the window,

a thin veil, a way to pretend,

that inside, it’s not all for show,

but a depth where the darkness extends.