Dishonesty
Your message arrived
right
after I left.
It was told by a passing acquaintance.
The artic wind could not have been colder
than your words conveyed to me;
nor the pits of Tartarus more malevolent
in their meaning.
We were lovers.
Yes.
Those days and nights
of
pure delight
were
destined to last forever.
But
all that changed.
Our love demoted to nonexistence
with one word.
Dishonesty.
Yes.
Dishonesty.
Had I been open,
forthright,
truthful,
when first we met,
perhaps our love would have had a chance.
But now,
my destiny will no longer
be
to lie within your embrace,
tracing the contours of your face.
I can never beg your forgiveness.
I can only grieve
for
what might have been.
© Skya Wode
05 January 1998
