What Lie Do I Tell You This Time?

In your Jeep the air conditioner blows grudgingly,

offering a thin breeze of lukewarm air.

We sit parked outside my building

because there is still a little time

and opening the door, stepping out into the sun

onto the pavement so hot I can feel it burning

through the thin soles of my cheap gold sandals

is a kind of tearing

like a knife to the skin every time we separate and I don’t know

when I’ll see you or hear your voice next.

Still, the healing power is remarkable.

We knit together so naturally I can barely see

the scars.

 

We had coffee in the shop where you first told me

you were getting married. Don’t

tell anyone, you said, Not even my parents know.

I didn’t. I went home

and wept to no one.

 

Today I wear the blue dress, the one

you complimented on your birthday

when I told you clumsily that I loved you.

I didn’t say love.

Was that my mistake?

You must not remember

because if you did you wouldn’t invite me

to come to supper at your place sometime

and I wouldn’t be asking myself

how to lie to you one more time.

 

Call me, you say. We’ll make plans.

I stare at the floor and nod, hoping

the week you are away with her will give me time

to create a plausible excuse.

 

How can I lie and lie to you?

Your eyes are always intent on mine,

yet you miss the meaning there,

like today when you thought I was going to cry,

but it was only the faint smell of onion

lingering on my fingers. You’re trying to make-up

for the time before

when the almost-tears were real

and you didn’t see them and I told you later.

 

Before we part I reach for you,

just your arm

because touching you is a compulsion.

You take my hand and squeeze it.

I don’t meet your eyes. The air conditioner gurgles

and our joined hands contract

like a heart.

I can feel it pumping something vital

through the body that is for a moment

yours and mine. Between us

something flows.

Author's Note

Suggestions to improve this appreciated. i think it's lagging in the middle and needs some pruning.

Reviews

[StoryTailor]

I don't really think it needs anything. Although I question the fact of it's being a poem. Then again, What do I know? I'm not a poet. Good job anyway. It's a great piece.