It's like a smile at a funeral.
Soft and insecure,
cradling.
Unsure if you're fit to go on,
but too polite to suggest
such weakness.

You use your wit and your guile
like a mask at the dance.
Gliding in and out of the
crowd with a grace and imperfection
that is fitting to the inconsistency
of your character.

Someone's mirroring your
movement like a doppelganger
dark and fierce,
step by step,
arm to arm
heart to heart.

It's like a smile at a funeral.
Soft and insecure,
cradling.
Unsure if you're fit to go on,
but too polite to suggest
such weakness.