Once and a while, a piece of music,
a particular tune,
will creep up and onto your skin,
layering you with bumps
like a deep, deep burn.
And though you won't be able
to stand the sight
of your own tears, they will come.
They will fall hard,
off the bridge of your nose,
and down onto the floor boards
for days and days and days.
For a while, it'll come up
in conversation,
like the way a sudden change
in the weather tends to do,
but when it's your turn
to respond, you'll do so with
such finesse.
A fine, filtered, fictional, fabrication
of an excuse. So true, that there
won't be anymore questions,
and you'll get to keep this secret,
like you do all the rest, to yourself,
to your dolefully, splendid self.

e.campagna