They speak in turns, of dinners, travel, shoes,
Of days arranged in lists and minor cares.
Their voices blend in soft, agreeable hues,
As if the world held nothing unawares.
I listen well, and place my answers right,
A smile where silence threatens to be known.
I play the role that keeps the mood polite
And lose small pieces I once called my own.
No one expects a thought too sharp or deep.
They fear what bends the air or breaks the flow.
So truth must shrink, and memory must sleep,
And what I carry, I must never show.
Yet when I leave, the silence is severe.
The echo of their words still fills my head.
And though I looked like one who stood sincere,
I spent the evening vanishing instead.
Hollow Talk
© Copyright: Староминскаяя, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125060505966
Свидетельство о публикации №125060505966
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