Honesty Is Suicidal

The moon was absent.
Darkness touched my skin
Like falling ash.

All those evenings rehearsing,
Studying make-believe romance,
To construct the dialogue
That would demonstrate

There she stood.
A gift from the sporadic nature of coincidence.

She slipped her fingers
Into my perspiring hand.
I trembled,
For fear she would let go.
All the rehearsals
A failed endeavor.

‘Say something.’
I thought.
‘Say something,
You idiot,
Or you’ll regret it forever.’

“I, I, I, never thought I would see you again…”

“Why not?” She questioned.

“I don’t know.”

We walked down the sidewalk. My tongue remained mute
From disbelief.

“Can I buy you a drink?”
She teetered for a moment and found balance by leaning on me.

But my thoughts
Suffered from vertigo.
The further I looked down,
The more pathetic my fear became.

“I don’t know. I should go back to my friends.”

‘Take her away. Do it. Tell her you miss her! Tell her you still care.’

*Honesty is suicidal.

“Oh yes. Ha. No, of course. Go back to them. Have fun while you’re young!”

She balanced, one last time, on the tips of her toes.

We kissed away a moment’s worth of insecurity
For a lifetime’s worth of confusion.

As she walked away,
Her body became the ash
That touched me.
I brushed it off my skin.
And drank until I killed the part of me
That rationalized hope.

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