Your skin is tender,
your eyes make me dream,
you make me smile
every time I see you.
I knew I loved you,
the moment you said
with your smooth, dark voice.
I am sad to confront you
about something I found out
in my book club the other day –
Edith Wharton was the subject.
Although it was some years ago,
it still happened.
with my sister.
But it wasn’t as much
the actual affair
that made me sick to my stomach,
and made my heart long for Aspirin.
It was the lying.
So, the perfume I smelled on your jacket wasn’t from your mother? whom you visited in the hospital every other day? Is your mother even in the hospital?
So, the lipstick I saw, smudged on your face wasn’t from the cake you had at work? There was no cake, was there?
And so, I confront you
with what has to be done.
I never saw it coming,
but I think it’s time for us to part.
If only, that night you said
if only, that night I had
the Roman Fever.
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