Lie

It will always belong to us.

That is what you used to say to me, sweeping strands of hair from my
damp cheek when I was still innocent enough to cry.

The funny thing is now I see you always promised at night, with a
post-coital fag pressed between your lips, legs still wrapped around
me, tiliting your head to one side to blow smoke away from my uplifted
face.

The metallic hum of the fan, like a fly trapped in a web was always the
last thing I heard before I drifted in to slumber, eyes flickering
resentfully at having to avert their gaze.

Freed by parental rule to fall in to your arms, yet trapped by a
captivating desire beyond the perception of my years, I saw I needed
only you.

When I awoke, it was cool. The silence throbbed with seconds of a clock
face.

I waited for the click of the bathroom light as you padded back to
bed.
Pale light breathed in at the curtain seam dissolving the hard outlines
of the room.
It lay in your place smiling with every car that swept across its
brow.
I thought you were teasing me, hiding, so I crept from my warmth and
flung open every door, eager to show you I understood.
My laughter was a sililoquoy. I was playing to a dumb audience.
I left you a note so when you come home you will know I waited to say
Goodbye.