The Furrow, Or, A Silent Story

She paused, then. On the phone.

Just a breath, a catch.

And I saw it, right there,

as if she were in the room, her face.

That line.

Between the brows, a thin,

vertical crease, like a canyon wall

carved by some slow, insistent dread.

It wasn’t new. It’s always been.

But it deepens now, I think,

a quiet map of what she holds.

Not spoken, never named,

just etched there, for anyone to find.

And I see it, in the mirror sometimes,

a faint echo, just beginning to bind

my own forehead, a little too kind

to worries that are not quite mine.

Or are they? I just can't unwind.