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The Truth Between the Lines

I organize my living By color-coding doubt, Arranging every certainty I cannot live without— But you arrive unlabelled, Unsorted, undefined, A question in the margins Of the plans I’ve underlined. I keep my expectations In well-apologized restraint, A practiced kind of modesty Disguised as what I ain’t— But you have this way of noticing The cracks I can’t conceal, As though you’re reading footnotes To the things I never feel. We’re speaking in the subtext, We’re living in the pause, We’re quoting all the symptoms But never naming cause. We circle the admission Like dancers out of time— Afraid to read aloud The truth between the lines. You smile in careful fragments, You ration what you mean, As though emotion were a debt Best paid in small routine— But every joke you borrow Has gravity beneath, A whisper of the sentence You are frightened to bequeath. You dress your disappointments In velvet etiquette, So no one ever notices The wars you can’t forget— You say you’re “simply tired,” You say you’re “just unsure,” But sorrow is a dialect I’ve somehow learned from you. We’re fluent in the metaphor, Illiterate in fact, We bow to every etiquette That courage might attack. We dance around the silence As though it were sublime— Afraid to read aloud The truth between the lines. I thought if I were brilliant, If I were self-contained, No one would ever notice What tenderness remained— But brilliance is a barricade That keeps the heart confined, And you have found the hidden door I swore I’d never find. I thought if I were reasonable, If I were gently wise, I’d never have to risk myself Or speak in compromised— But reason is a refuge Where feeling goes to die, And every time you look at me I lose my alibi. We’ve mastered the evasive tense, The almost, not-quite, when— The grammar of avoidance We conjugate again. We edit every heartbeat To keep it “sounding fine”— Afraid to read aloud The truth between the lines. Then here’s the unrefined version, Unmetered, overfull: I want you in the daylight, Not distant, not “optional.” No clever paraphrasing, No aesthetic defense— I’m finished with the elegance Of curated pretense. Then here’s my clumsy counterpoint, Unfiltered, badly timed: I’ve loved you in the intervals Where language stays behind. No irony, no exit cue, No safeguard, no disguise— Just this unguarded evidence Before you change your mind. We’ve torn up the subtext now, We’ve shattered the polite, We’ve named the thing we’ve hidden from In brutal, blazing light. No more interpretive fear, No more decoding signs— We’re finally reading clearly The truth between the lines.