Lying with Beautiful Lies

art-is-the-most-beautiful-of-all-lies

Once he’d write her
every day, sometimes twice.
But he’d never send
those messages because
they confused even him.
They’d lie, inert, unloved,
he hoped forgotten,
between notebook covers,
or under assumed names
on a hard drive.
To send them would
blow his cover,
as if he was the
star-crossed lover
who pined for something
he couldn’t have,
but never really needed.
The words that escaped
would lie, too, speaking
of feelings injured,
a heart unloved.
He heard that song today,
and they all came back,
stupid words and dreams
best forgotten, and
beautiful lies once more
given life.

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