Crack on the wall

At first

there was a crack on the wall

and nothing asked of it.

I paraphrased

to stay unseen,

casual—

as if casual were neutral,

as if disguise were not already a choice.

Even when it wasn’t needed

I wore it.

That should have been a sign.

What turned into a poem

was not paper,

it was the delay.

A comedy rehearsed

before it knew its audience,

sketched without touch,

without sound—

the smile already planned.

I smiled

to move past the point.

I smiled

where silence wanted accuracy.

Memory went yellow,

filtered,

acceptable.

A fact appeared

and didn’t fit.

So it was adjusted.

The face learned its angle,

gesture found its timing,

and suddenly everything agreed

to play along.

Fact became accomplice.

Proof became performance.

Then the pen.

Not dramatic—

just present.

It danced the margin,

bent speech into writing,

named nothing,

left traces everywhere.

Around it

papers waited,

blank but implicated,

as if silence could be cited.

Intention leaned forward.

Ink followed.

Even without a role,

the gesture happened—

careless,

perfectly timed.

Silence turned into a color.

Yellow.

So I asked

too late

what the weapon was:

time,

or the way it passes.

Paper stopped being paper

when the smile returned.

It became a song,

or a promise

that never stopped pretending.

A lie

that learned how to stand.

Before clarity,

everything was paraphrase—

words scraping by,

never landing.

Small talk.

Cheap filters.

Smoke between eye and meaning.

A gesture that said no

without speaking,

dressed the word

in theory,

in maybe.

I changed on purpose.

Casual into usual.

Smile intact.

Character assigned.

Lie approved.

From word

to paper

to wall.

The last lie

found the crack

and stayed.

The poem.