A. N. Tipton
2 min readJun 5, 2021
Photo by Václav Pluhař on Unsplash

Your love is a forgery,

words flowing off your tongue like honeyed silk,

they fall flat under broken promises.

The veneer of your caresses mimic authenticity

as you hand out platitudes like counterfeit bills,

empty and worthless.

After, I am left holding my ashamed heart,

believing you to be a Rembrandt,

when really you were a pale imitation.

I see the flawed lines now.

Lying in the wake

of your crimes of dispassion,

I peel your lies off my skin,

revealing the scars of your misleading signature,

in loops and slashes and scrupulous scrawls,

turning to phony rivulets running down into fake tattoos.

I, too, fell victim to the sham of your soft lips,

tasting like cherries, only to turn to ash under the black light,

illuminating your washed out ink.

My salty tears mix with the rain as I’m left behind alone

with my bag of hoaxes, as you disappear like the Pink Panther,



A. N. Tipton

I am a Writer, a Lover of Books, a Mother & an Usui Reiki Master who loves to read & write & all things Universal. Words move me, inform me, inspire me.