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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 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
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2021
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