Poets and Other Liars
She told me that she wanted love
stricken from the poetic lexicon.
It is often a lie after all
but then again poets are liars.
Dreamers that distill language
down to its purest form
in a vain effort to sip 90 proof
metaphors of truth and passion.
I used to write love notes
on the fogged mirror of her bathroom
on my way out in the morning.
She would sing full throat in the shower,
sweet songs of joy and hope
that stuck in my head
as I walked out the door.
I suppose she stopped singing
when she finally realized I was gone.
She asked if any of it was true
and I looked past her
and nodded platitudes.
One more lie couldn’t hurt.
“I’m sorry I hurt you” fell
to the floor next to her tears
as I composed a new poem in my head.
SMG
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