On TV they tell that you’re lying by blinks, mistakes you make stuttering, speech impediments be damned, it’s incriminating evidence alongside blusher, sweat, spit, finger tips grating against the skin of another.
My eyes are pinned and I won’t close until the entire paragraph is mouth-free. I’ll recite a line from a poem I wrote about you in high school – when you were a student and I was your teacher. I could even re-tell the story of us the way we’ll tell our children, without x-rated, cops, my nails scratching at bra hooks, slipping through the outlines of flowers on the lace that you’re wearing.
And what we will tell, lie-less, is a matter of opinion, an opinion matter.
You sleep first and the neighbours fucking isn’t enough to rouse you.