The glow from your cigarette
emits just enough light
to cast a shadow and illuminate your eyes.
I'm legally blind, but not blind enough
to miss the tears you attempt to hide
as you inhale.
You don't think I can see,
so you smile and attempt to control
the tremor in your voice.
I pretend not to notice,

But I know that your
father made you
cry again.

You realize that I noticed,
and yet, you don't say a thing.
We both pretend I didn't see,
even though we're both bad at pretending.
The silence envelops us,
and we refuse to say anything.
We've always used unspoken excuses
as a barrier between us,
because we aren't brave enough,
because your problems are your problems,
and mine are mine.

But I know that your
father made you
cry again.

There isn't a good enough reason why.
We don't have to have one,
and we don't look for one either.
That's just the way it's always been,
and I don't expect it to change.
Even though it probably should,
we'll continue to pretend.
So I ask for a cigarette, and it
casts a shadow and illuminates my eyes,
that aren't really that blind,

Because I know that your
father made you
cry again.

And that won't change, no matter what we pretend.