CAMPFIRE STORY
Nothing hurts more than to find out a lie;
intentional unsaid truth of the sly.
The pain so raw that everything turns red—
why was it said and why was it hidden?
One, blink.
Two, try to sleep.
Three, mistakes speak.
The exhausted mind tries to counter it,
"No, it can't be, there must be a reason,"
thinking of anything to prove it wrong.The smile worn out from who he loves the most—
would he tell her if he knew that she knows?
Her presence is like a secret affair,
no one asks so he wouldn't share she's there.
To gently inquire or to just let it be,
or to do the same to let him see—feel
what's it like to be lied to with kisses,
but she wants the paper rings, not sunsets
so she would never do what he never tolerated.*
All in one.
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THE MUSE'S PAGES: dusk
PoetryThe other half of The Muse's Pages: dawn, a collection of self-written poetry