In weary silence we dance
around the kitchen, avoiding
a glance, a word, a touch,
rapidly waltzing away.
When did we become strangers
perfecting the poker face,
sliding bets across the table
on an unsure thing.
Each day pulls a thread from
the fabric, invisibly unraveling,
parting without a backward glance.
When does it become unimportant
to preserve something long-ago
spoiled by inattention and apathy,
unable to ignore the rancid stench
of a dead, rotting lie.
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