Your smile is humble, your laugh enchants.
As we walk back home I absorb your words,
your coy allusions to some past romance,
your mentions of your discerning taste,
of how you only drink expensive wine
and how French Roast is superior to Pikes Place.
And your breath quickens as you recount that time
years ago, when you were in Europe and
you single handedly rescued your family
with your Spanish and now you’ve gained the upper hand
by casually admitting you’ve seen every film I’ve seen
and more and even read the books they’d been adapted from and—
You’re speaking only beguiling lies.
I wish I could just tell you to shut up.