A worn-out porch swing creaks a slow rhythm,
like the tick of a clock I can’t seem to stop.
The sun dips low, paints the yard in long shadows,
and I watch it all, a quiet, still observer.
They say the eyes are windows to the soul,
a clear pane where truth shines through.
They say eyes don’t lie.
But mine do.
I look at the dog, old and grey at the muzzle,
and my eyes tell him I’m alright, just tired.
They don’t show the knot in my stomach,
or the way my hands tremble when I’m alone.
I look at the sky, a vast, open blue,
and my eyes tell it I’m at peace, content.
They don’t reveal the constant churn inside,
the questions I carry, heavy as stones.
I look at the faces of people I know,
and my eyes tell them I’m happy to see them.
They don’t betray the distance I feel,
the space that grows wider with each passing day.
My eyes are smooth, polished stones,
reflecting a surface I carefully maintain.
They offer a version of me, neat and tidy,
while the real me hides, tucked away in the dark.
Maybe it’s not a conscious deception,
not a calculated plan to mislead.
Maybe it’s just a way to keep going,
one breath at a time, behind a screen of calm.
But the porch swing keeps creaking,
the shadows keep growing,
and I know, deep down,
that eyes don’t lie.
Except mine. They do.
