The Fault Line

You wear that lie so well,
did you come up with it
all by yourself?
To say what you want
is to try again, be more…
not just friends?
Charmed, was I? Sure.
Just as you should be.
So proud, so quick
to judge my conscience,
my being so inaudibly.
It’s just, my dear,
you read me wrong,
by no fault of my own,
mind you but yours,
you very well know.
I cannot be sorry,
no blame will I own.
So, very well, you claim.
But your eyes say it loud-
say far too much, now.
Perhaps I should go. Yes,
for your looks grow sharp
and cut me deeply so-
that I might detest them,
eventually, or perhaps,
instead the whole. You.
For what else could I say
but be honest here?
I did once, but no longer
could I fancy you.
What fool was I to once deny
that common threads
were ever even shared,
much less worn bare
by our hands at work
to drive each other away,
or mad? No, not mad.
Just madly away.
We at least played
well that part together.
For my mind stayed
right where I said it would.
While yours, betrayed
by the past’s poor display
left me here to stay,
dismissed, to pay the debts
of your past dismay.


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