Every morning, he slipped it on
a grin like a freshly pressed suit,
neatly tailored, not a thread astray.
His words, warm as fresh coffee,
poured into mugs he’d never drink from,
stirred the air with laughter not his.
The office walls held his practiced charm,
his laughter ricocheted like a polite echo.
Every handshake, a soft-padded performance;
every nod, a semaphore of false understanding,
his kindness rented by the hour,
a currency that rarely paid him back.
But at home—his face untucked itself,
the mask crumpled into the laundry bin.
His words grew scarce and stilt-walking,
like a machine winding down to rest.
The furniture learned to stop expecting,
the silence waiting for him to arrive.
What was left felt raw, unfurnished,
an unlit fireplace, all stone and stillness.
He spoke in sighs, his voice unraveling—
not unkind, but untethered, unmade.