The Script

The words were the right ones, I know how they sound,

polished and heavy and perfectly round.

I said them across the salt and the bread

while the real thing stayed quiet and bitter instead.

Your shoulders stayed high, a frozen-up line,

and I felt the distance beginning to twine

around the table, the chairs, and the floor,

a lock being turned on a very small door.

It wasn't a bridge, it was more like a wall,

a way to make sure that we didn't have to fall.

I said I was sorry, a beautiful lie,

and watched the last bit of the honesty die.