The Charade

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“To my happiness,” she said as she
Raised her glass to no one and drank
Deeply of the emptiness. She swirls
Her cup of nothing as if somehow this
Will bring forth miracles, and then she
Places it on the table by her plate of
Dashed hopes and her napkin full of
Sorrows and she leans her elbows on
The smooth oak surface, places her face
In two perfectly manicured hands and
She pretends she isn’t crying when she
Answers the phone and says to no one
In particular, “Everything is fine.”


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