7/30

I lied and said I'd marry you.

The nurse in the ICU counted the narcotics locker, changed the bedpans, administered Oxycontin to the man in A2 who mistook her for his late wife, and began to choke himself with the curtain.

I lied and said you were perfect.

The officer knocked the homeless woman to the ground, remote controls, iPods and car stereos fell out of her pockets, her purses, her pantlegs. When she bit him on the thumb, he tasered her on the birthmark behind her left ear.

I told you I wanted children with you.

The pilot disengaged the back-up engine, watching as the clouds gave way, revealing Richmond's dragon's mouth landscape, and the quiet symmetry of the tarmac.

I said everything I could think of
while the butterflies camouflaged to look like owl-wings, while the Canadian geese migrated to muted tableau of Central Park, while a pack of coyotes circle a lost dog in the dark of Everett Crowley park.

The CEO took the esteemed guest to a wine & cheese bar, the Vice President drafted his resignation, the Manager of Accounting came in on a Saturday.

While couples whispered genuine forevers between pillows and streetlights, while a mother slapped her daughter for the very first time.

While the world span,

I lied, and promised, and kissed,

and left you for the real thing.