I was digging for a pen to sign the rent

I was digging for a pen to sign the rent.

I found us instead, warped and bent.

The tape is a scab, yellow and dry,

Holding together a well-packaged lie.

You’re wearing that hat, I’m holding a glass,

Laughing at something that didn't quite pass.

It felt like a punch-line, a sharp, clever spark.

Now it’s just something that rots in the dark.