Such Lies. By Alex Wyte
The ring of the phonetightens my gutsthe charade must go onthe deceit will prevailonce it was truenow merely a front"I love you, I miss you", and other such lies.I go through the motionsnot wishing to woundshe looks for my love, she looks for my touchbut I leave heraloneas I climb into bedand whisper once more"I love you, I want you", and other such lies.How to get outto slavage us boththe coward is stronghis will wins outthe need for this womanhas long since goneso why the pointless reprise?"I love you, I need you", and other such lies.She must know the truthbut will not confrontshe holds on in hope rather than loveI withdraw from her touchbut her hurt is so rawthat I repeat once again"I love you, I love you", and other such lies.
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