She lies, softly snoring,
on my chest.
I know she doesn't mean
to lead me on.

We met a month ago,
when we both climbed
on top a roof,
to gaze at the moon.

We shared of few tales
of too many trips gone astray
and laughed at the people
through the sky-light

unaware of the pair
sitting cross-legged
just above their heads --
just above their heads.

We were made of different
stuff than those people
below us; that night
we weren't even human.

But days follow nights
and whispered words
rarely amount to truth.

She lies like everyone before her:
afraid to hurt the people she loves.