what perfect pictures
of your imperfection.
of her head
tucked into the curve between
your throat and shoulder
that was mine.

in them
in moments you claim were cold,
she is the focus of your art
and you grin.
these pictures, frozen
after the one
which burns me so . . .

her lips laugh,
drunkenly,
and you were drunk on their poison.
knowing that your tongue—
vile pirate—
plundered them
curls mine into a scowl.

young sir,
you are not without remorse
but without faith,
and i am not without compassion,
but i have lost faith.

to her, with your smile, your kiss
or to me
with your palatable words—
to which of us
did your lips form lies?