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.
This one was written sometime in 2006. (c) J.E. DuPont