Mistaken

I lied to you.
It wasn’t true
that I had to leave,
that I had to step away
from our clandestine
conversations
for fear we’d be
discovered.
There was no danger
we’d be found out—
no risk of my losing it all
because we shared
ourselves as best we could
with seventeen hours
and twenty eight minutes
between us.
After all my truths,
I lied to you—
so you’d let me go.
I knew you wouldn’t want
to be my downfall
or my terrible regret—
that you were wise enough
to see what damage
we could cause
if another day passed
without clipping
our beautiful wings.
And I almost felt
what I couldn’t dare tell you.
There’s a word for it—
and most people are mistaken
when they call it love.

 

DeMaris Gaunt
5-1-15

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