The Words I Keep

For every good morning that slips past my lips,

there's a war in my chest where the real sentence dips —

three words like a tide that I swallow back down,

they rise, and I drown them, and still they don't drown.

For every how are you I answer with fine,

I'm tracing the outline of what could be mine —

eight letters I'm holding like glass in my hands,

too afraid of the breaking to make my demands.

For every take care that I send you at night,

I'm stitching it into the hem of what's right —

a careful translation, a love in disguise,

the truest of truths wearing practical lies.

For every I miss you, just know what I mean —

it's not just the absence, it's all the unseen,

the version of us that I carry alone,

the home that I built from a word I won't own.

And maybe one morning, or one quiet night,

the war will grow tired of putting up fight —

and instead of good morning, instead of take care,

I'll finally say it —

the three words that were always already there.