Sweet Nothings

He whispered sweet nothings to me,

as he playfully stroked my cheek with his bony fingers.

I was a child then,

as much as I am now,

writing this bizarre retelling,

of a night that took place so many nights ago.

I am new,

I could have told him that

or at least he could have known.

My flesh was straight,

almost flawless,

rekindled within the flame of my curly hair.

Sweet nothings:

I read that in a poem once,

so like my own cry here.

I sang a delightful song to him that evening.

One that

charted the years of my life like a map.

My sadness,

my love,

my remembrance.

The youth,

all around me,

would think it foolish,

how I doted on you with such devotion.

But I have always been an old soul.

Ready,

and willing,

to die for the man that I love.

I covered up the twisted lie,

so many times before,

by painting my face completely

(nothing could be seen.)

Except the lie,

that,

though you didn't notice,

was clearly visible.

He whispered sweet nothings to me,

as he playfully stroked my cheek with his bony fingers.

And at once the lie became truth.