Second Line
He promised me a place beside him,
said we’d face the storm together.
But when the voices grew,
he turned his back to the weather.
His tone joins the chorus,
traps me in the same corner.
“Familiar noise,” he says,
as if I should be used to the war.
He calls it loyalty by habit,
a loyalty that came before me.
And I learned early where I stand
without him having to decree.
The first day still lives in my bones,
the same ache, the same refrain.
Reasons wrapped like apologies,
and I’m left holding the pain.
Trust slipped out without a sound,
I can’t call it back again.
But I stay — not for the vow,
but for the little one who needs me then.
So I wear this life like a coat,
heavy, frayed, hard to shed.
Not because it still fits,
but because there’s nowhere else to head.
Some people only have room for one,
and his silence answers every time.
No questions left to ask.
I’ve always been the second line.
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