She still slides an extra syllable into your name. A rising inflection that brings you into question and out of focus. You should be short and sharp - a knock on wood, a nail banged firm to hang my hope on.
There she is with her eyes drawn on. Doodled and downcast. Coloured in and crossed out. Practice makes perfect makes sense. Looking from the past to the present. Tense. As if she expects me to join in, join the dots - to play a round of have and have nots.
She whispers. Its not about the words but the breaths between. Held too long or exhaled too late. The fish wont always take the bait. Its not about the things you said, but about the lies you ate.
I gave her back the smile. I have no need for it anymore, and its started to annoy me. Velcro greeting and tacky goodbyes. Always gathering dust and sticking to the sole of my shoe. I need a mouth that plays by the rules - that talks when its open and not when its locked.