The Lies We Tell

He recalls we were gorgeous,
pleased me like an egg – fast

Why lie to men about
what blow must skin cry?

We are black from mist above moan,
I bare my drive as pink,

sit through summer of aching,
show my gown sweet…

though never did sleep.

(Fridays are magnetic poetry.  Find it online at magnetic poetry.com.  Love it if you’d join me.)

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