I try to find the fine line of the truth in your lies
but it’s slippery and my hands have been coated with too much experience to hold it.
My memories fall out your ears like rain…
but not the drops that splash on pleasant spring mornings,
the kind of rain I’ll never sing in when it haunts our town.
I try to find all the sinkholes before they form,
bury them with pebbles and old notes and trying to make you feel like this is home,
telling you everything you need to hear.
I put on your coffeepot at the exact right moment so it’s done when you get home for dinner.
I wait too long for some sort of reassurance, maybe a flower or one arm curled around my shoulder or eye contact for once, but I’m positive I have not waited long enough.
I make you the meals that coat your voice in a little less angry, a little more willing to forgive when I burn something the next day. I make you the meals that slip down your throat more easily than my name.
I use the words always and never more than you use my name just because I want to be unwavering.
I make the spot in the bed beside me less empty and at the same time unfillable just by speaking your name when you’re gone.
These are the kind of lies I tell myself.
Love is like drinking three gallons of ice water at once.
It’s beautiful and refreshing and I only regret it after it’s settled like a glacier in my stomach.