Untruths, Tender

she ... gently shivered ... venetian-sieved ribbons of moonlight painting her face ... the words struggled on her lips, then ever-so-softly dripped like maple syrup, and found purchase in my mind ... plopping sticky and plump with feigned self-importance ... "Don't you love me?" ah, divine duplicity ... the cumber of that phrase - the blessed ships launched and scuttled for its sake ... how many such pivotal instances had felt their import? and yet never with the same flavor ... at times, allaying the tongue with sugary sate, at others, nipping the cheeks with candor's bitter tang ... (oft', the even more acrid lace of indifference), each such prospect seasoned by the reply, of course ... now ... now that indulgence was upon MY tray, and oh, how passion could be cruel - how it so contrarily demanded virtue, and how such immaculate forms and visages as hers pleaded for charity ... still, moonlight speaks a tongue its own - one of sensuality and advantage, of soft skin and warm creases and sweet nectars ... of throaty sighs and pleadings ... and that vocabulary was my language - my true vernacular - the duplicitous poison of all such scoundrels, transformed by twilight ... so ... carefully, tenderly, adoringly, I whispered the sweet lie ... "Why, yes ... yes, my love ... I do." Written on May 2, 2021