Because I Know



Don’t look at me like that
with your eyebrow raised
in skepticism.
Like I don’t understand,
because I know
that once you used to smile with warmth
instead of sarcasm.
I know that cold mask you wear
is only a façade.
Only a surface, like the surface
of the river that flows beneath
the wooden bridge where we stood
concealed in muted light
of moon and stars.
Just as cold and hiding
just as much life as the
murky, dark water.

I know
because I know
how much you cried the night she died
and I know how
you went to her grave
on that cold November evening
exactly one year to the day
and played all of her favorite songs
one after the other
until your fingers bled
and the fourth string on your violin snapped
giving you that scar under your eye.
I know
how you ran your wet fingers
across the engraved epitaph
“Loving Mother” and stained it
with love’s symbolic color
as crimson tears dripped from the cut;
real tears having run dry long ago
for someone you couldn’t save.

So don’t look at me like that,
with that defiance and that spark of fear
in those intense eyes
resembling a cornered beast.
Because I know
you better than you think,
I’ve already seen your weaknesses,
but I will never tell another soul
or bring you pain
because I know
that your flaws mirror mine.
And if you won’t tell
neither will I.