The Lie of Fine

They asked me how I was today,

and out it came, that easy word:

"Fine." A habit, I suppose,

something nobody really heard

beyond the surface. But the kitchen’s quiet,

just the fridge’s low, steady drone.

Sunlight hits the dust motes dancing,

and suddenly I’m all alone.

It’s not the shouting, not the tears,

that get me now, these months gone by.

It’s this small, domestic quiet,

a hollow ache beneath the lie.