October 2008 / Volume 8 / Issue Three
Cynthia Ruth Lewis

I think you're only telling me
what I want to hear,
striking at the uncertainty,
zeroing in on the vulnerability,
going in for the kill

You tell me you love me
but you don't even know me.
You say you'll do anything to make me happy,
but your definition of 'anything'
is rather vague and kind of frightening;
it matches the look in your eyes,
a desperate intensity that kicks
my curiosity and doubt into high gear

I lie awake in the middle of the night
seeing those eyes, hearing those
whispered promises,
wanting to believe them,
wanting to hold onto them like a life preserver,
wondering if you said those same exact words
to your ex-wife;
wondering exactly what
WASN'T said,
but was eventually discovered
in dark, unsuspecting moments
that weren't prepared for,
where the screams and raised fist drowned out
any hope of security or affection
she might have had,
if maybe that's the reason
you're single again