The Script We Both Know

He asked for twenty for a tank of gas

with his eyes on the floor and his hands in a blur.

I watched the frantic, familiar ghost pass

through his fingers like smoke, a desperate stir.

He’s peeling the label off an orange pill bottle

with a jagged nail and a focus so tight.

It’s a language I spoke at full-throated throttle

back when I was the one disappearing from sight.

I know why the lie has to sound like a fact,

and why the chest tightens when the answer is no.

It’s a play where we both have forgotten the act

but still remember the way the lines go.