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,
with my trust and innocence.
For you were just an illusion,
playing the strings of my heart like an out of tune violin,
taking me to undiscovered heights,
only to turn off key,
my ears bleeding from the dissonance,
breaking off pieces of my weary soul.
I’m left wondering,
is all love a forgery?
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© 2021 A. N. Tipton