~
Abraham Lincoln used to lie.
So did my mother.
Remember that time when we were little? The night we wrote our names on the sidewalk with the guts of a thousand mashed-up fireflies? I asked. The night the birds and their babies forgot to sleep? The night we felt free because we had nothing left to burn? Do you remember the way the sunrise dribbled over the horizon and leaked into our tattered converse sneakers?
As soon as you said Yes
I knew you were a liar too
Because
I made that memory up.
When you run your gritty hands through my hair, is that a lie too? I bet you’re just pretending when you put my head on our chest and breathe slowly so I’ll sleep sounder. I know the stale sweat sitting on our skin isn’t real. I guess it doesn’t matter. Because
One hundred years
is just a gasp
and a
breath
And you make me gasp every time I let you lie with me. I pant and heave and choke as your stories wiggle their way across my tongue and stick to the inside of my throat. And by then the truth doesn’t matter. You’re either a memory or a mirage or a dream and I don’t care. All I need are those
Goose Bumps
you leave scattered
across
my
sheets.