Pretending to Hold the Script

I nodded like I knew the lines,

film theory wrapped tight around my tongue.

Words fell over me—

slick, slippery—meant for actors,

not this muddled understudy.

Ink smeared, diagrams tangled,

the script I never learned,

fingertips tracing shapes of sense I never caught.

Half-understanding is its own quiet grief,

a play rehearsed in shadows,

till the meaning slips between fingers

and the silence stretches long.

I pretended,

and the lie grew deep.