Their laughter is like an orchestra

Words spill out of my mouth effortlessly, chin moving like an old painter's hand.

They all too willingly fall under my spell. Tears of joy flailing to the floor lying by broken glass.

My tears, however, sit at the bottom of my mask, slipping off the edges camouflaging into sweat at the back of my neck, running down my spine.

Still, jokes spill out like hundreds of years of untold secrets. Bubbling over edge, sizzling into bits of old stories.

**Most of them are true