A/N: Poem inspired by my favorite pair - Lancelot and Guinevere
Lies
They were both lying to themselves and they knew it.
At
first she would leave straightway, in silence.
The
instant limbs were untangled,
clothing
was put back on,
and
the door slammed shut.
Then she began to linger, not too long, but just long enough.
Long
enough to pretend he wasn't memorizing each note of her breathing.
Long
enough to pretend he wasn't studying every moonray that caressed her
face.
Long
enough to pretend he wasn't wanting her in his arms until the sun
rose.
She would stare into the darkness, looking for answers that weren't there.
"I can't do this anymore."
Silence.
The
bed seemed lighter, the room colder; she had taken all the warmth
with her.
All
that was left was the smell of sweat and sex.
Sex.
That's
all it was anyhow. All either of them wanted.
A
lie.
He
didn't care. She was just a woman. Nothing more.
He
could easily find another to fill his bed.
More
lies.
When she came back, he wasn't surprised. He knew she would.
"I thought you couldn't do this anymore?"
"I can't."
Just
once more and then never again.
Another
lie.
She lingered too long this time.
Long
enough to pretend she couldn't remember the rhythm of his heart
beating.
Long
enough to pretend she couldn't see his dark eyes whenever she closed
hers.
Long
enough to pretend she couldn't read the answers she sought, traced in
every scar written on his skin.
It
was pure lust that drew them together.
Hunger,
desire, passion.
Nothing
more.
Just sex.
Not
love.
The
worst lie of all.