Two keys tap softly in your coat pocket,
          and nowhere bears an address fit for home.

The note is damp; your palm has worried it.
          Ink runs like blood from words you will not say.

A practiced line dies off at every step,
          as if your tongue were leased, not born, to speak.

Excuse receipts have swollen your wallet:
          late trains, dead batteries, and frantic calls.

Cowardice sits beneath a spotless shirt;
          a bright grin worn like gauze across the truth.

Silence signs off with steady, hard pressure,
          patient as dust, and stubborn as a lock.

What you came here to say keeps changing shape,
          now sharp, now sweet, then nothing on the tongue,

the door hangs ajar between yes and no,
          and all your almost-bravery goes and sits to cool.
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