The Lie I've Grown

 

She asks if I remembered the old keys, 

I say they’re on the hook, 

where they should be. 

A flicker in her eyes, 

a strange unease, 

She claims the hook’s been empty since July.

I bought the sweater blue, 

to match your coat, 

But on the hanger, 

now the color’s grey. 

I’m sure I saw the thread, 

the subtle note, 

I must have dreamt the morning light away.

The house is built of silence, 

stone by stone, 

A lighthouse in a storm I sail alone. 

The ground I walk upon is not my own, 

And everything I know is just a lie I've grown.

She talks about a promise I once broke, 

A conversation I don’t recall we had. 

I watch the memory dissolve like smoke, 

And nod that I suppose I acted bad.

Did I lock the door? 

Did I turn the light off? 

Did I say the word? 

Did I drive the fight off? 

Is this Tuesday? Is this Sunday? 

Sanity is not for me. Sanity is not for me.

She smiles and says the moon is made of glass. 

I say that’s beautiful, 

and let it pass. 

I watch the dishes dry, 

the seconds crawl... 

I don't remember any of this at all.