The truth, or something like it//This past week

The truth , or something like it,
becomes fissured between the soul
and the mirror
so I search for glimpses of it
between his lines and
in the subtleties of affectionate glances,
flushed cheeks,
and the irrepressible smiles which are almost
continuously contradicted by cold shoulders,
blank stares,
and unconvincing displays of stoicism .
I find a dissonance between love and pride
and another between who we are and who we pretend to be.

I lay by the sea, my toes pressed firmly into the sand
and stare up at the sky while a movie montage
fast-forwards through all the details I told myself
not to overlook.
The faces blur and instead my memories take the form
of feeling. The in-between bits seem muddy, melting
into tacky puddles at my feet. 

Time, I hold onto you with clammy fingers.
How hasn’t the neck of the hourglass
shattered in my hands yet? I search:
How to get a grip
on the shapeless, that which is all
around me yet drowns me?
Another dissonance found
between who I am,
and who I’ll become.
So I let the hand of Time slowly stitch over my perforations
and allow the promise of Death to gently iron out the seams.