Tell Me Sweet Little Lies

Tell me the coffee will be ready in five minutes
when we both know the machine is broken,
tell me the train is only running late
and not that I've been standing on the wrong platform
for the better part of my reasonable mind.

Tell me your mother likes me,
that she wasn't sizing up my worn jacket
with the precision of a jeweler examining flaws,
tell me she whispered sweet things about me
in the kitchen while I pretended not to strain
my ears through the thin apartment walls.

Tell me the job interview went well,
that the silence after my stumbling answer
about my greatest weakness was contemplative,
not the sound of opportunity closing
like a heavy door in an empty hallway.
Tell me they're still considering,
still shuffling through applications,
still believing in second chances.

Tell me we have time—
that the sun sets slower in November,
that deadlines are suggestions,
that the dishes can wait another day
while we lie here counting ceiling cracks
like constellations we'll never navigate by.
Tell me time moves differently for lovers,
that clocks stop ticking when hearts synchronize.

Tell me I look younger than my years,
that the lines around my eyes are laugh lines,
not the geography of sleepless nights
and worry etched in permanent ink.
Tell me gray hair is distinguished,
that my hands don't shake from too much caffeine
but from the excitement of being alive
in this particular moment, in this particular skin.

Tell me the bank account has money in it,
that overdraft fees are mathematical errors,
that ramen noodles are a lifestyle choice
and not the only thing between us
and the gnawing uncertainty of empty cupboards.
Tell me we're bohemian, not broke,
that minimalism is a philosophy we've chosen
rather than had chosen for us.

Tell me the dog is just sleeping,
that thirteen years old is young for a golden retriever,
that the labored breathing is contentment,
not the sound of systems slowly shutting down.
Tell me he's dreaming of tennis balls
and long walks through parks that stretch forever,
not preparing for a journey I can't follow.

Tell me the test results were mixed up,
that the doctor's grave expression
was meant for someone else's file,
that benign and malignant are just words
with no more power than we give them.
Tell me medicine is magic,
that science works miracles,
that hope is its own kind of healing.

Tell me she's coming back,
that the empty drawers are temporary,
that the silence in the morning
is just her sleeping in another time zone.
Tell me love letters can travel
across continents and broken promises,
that forgiveness lives in forwarding addresses
and second chances come in boxes
we haven't opened yet.

Tell me the world is getting better,
that the news is wrong about humanity,
that strangers still help strangers,
that children still believe in goodness
despite what they see on glowing screens.
Tell me wars are just misunderstandings
waiting for the right translator,
that peace is possible,
that kindness is contagious.

Tell me my writing matters,
that words strung together like prayer beads
can change the weight of someone's morning,
that poems are medicine,
that stories are survival kits
for those lost in the wilderness
of their own making.
Tell me art is essential,
not luxury.

Tell me this traffic will clear,
that we won't be late to the wedding,
that the bride will wait for us
to witness her stepping into forever.
Tell me GPS systems know secret routes
through the maze of construction zones
and human error, tell me we'll arrive
exactly when we're supposed to.

Tell me the plants on the windowsill
are dormant, not dying,
that brown leaves are seasonal fashion,
that water and sunlight can resurrect
anything willing to try again.
Tell me gardens are exercises in faith,
that next spring will remember
what this winter forgot.

Tell me democracy works,
that voting booths are confessionals
where conscience speaks louder than convenience,
that leaders lead because they love
their people more than their power.
Tell me corruption is the exception,
not the rule, that good people
still run for office with clean hearts
and dirty hands from building
the foundations of tomorrow.

Tell me oceans clean themselves,
that ice caps are naturally cyclical,
that the earth is stronger than we are,
that nature adapts faster than we can damage.
Tell me polar bears are excellent swimmers,
that coral reefs are just sleeping,
that the future is a place
our grandchildren will thank us for.

Tell me these sweet little lies
until they become prayer,
until they become possibility,
until they become the truth
we're brave enough to create
with our own believing hands,
our own hoping hearts,
our own stubborn refusal
to accept the world as it is
instead of as it could be.

Tell me we matter,
tell me we're loved,
tell me tomorrow
will be different
because we dared
to dream it so.

Tell me, and I'll believe you,
because sometimes the only thing
standing between despair and dawn
is the sweet little lie
that becomes the truth
we're willing to live for.