“You hurt her, didn’t you…?”
“No, why would you say such a thing.”

“You always said she was uglier than the dirt beneath your fingernails and sadder than the drooping crescent moon.”

“I never said such things to her.”
“Your eyes tell me that you are lying.”

“I endlessly told her that she was prettier than any monarch butterfly, any elegant blossom, any green dew-filled grass and happier than the vivacious sphere of gases that is in the clear cerulean sky.”

"You’re fibbing, aren’t you?"
“Yes… yes I am.”

“I told her she was as skeletal as a twig and that she had the bone structure of a ragged door frame, and that she couldn’t play striking music, only broken bits and pieces of miserable sonnets.”

“She loved you, you know that right?"
“Yes.”