The Echo of Fine, or, The Shut Door

My neighbor, bless her, asked.

Just across the hall, the question hung,

a thin, polite string, easily stung.

'How are you?' she asked. I said 'Fine.'

And the word, it felt like plaster

 hardening on my tongue.

My eyes, they were hot, you know?

Not crying-hot, just… hot. A pressure.

Then her door closed. A quiet click.

Leaving me with the echo of 'fine,'

that perfectly rounded, empty line.

A neat, quick brick against the quick.

And now, the hallway is just air.

And the word, it sits, a flat, smooth stone,

right where a different truth might've grown.

It's a wall. I put it there.