Loose Lips

“What’s wrong?” you ask, giving your drink a swirl,

stirring things up again. “Nothing,” I say.

You look at me, not buying it, brow furled,

“Are you mad at me?” But I turn away

and say, “No, well, I’m trying not to be.”

And I am trying, just not succeeding.

You twirl a strand of hair and sip slowly,

you don’t speak; the silence does the asking.

But I say nothing. I mean, how can I?

Admitting that I expected those words

from anyone but you, my mouth goes dry.

Anyone else and they wouldn’t have mattered.

But they slipped between your ivory teeth,

so in the green tint of fluorescent light,

the cracks widen, I let the quiet seethe,

letting it pull the ship down, out of sight.