The Lies and the Hands

I tell myself all sorts of things. Few of them true, none of them valid. I tell myself these words because I can find no other way to stop the heavy heartache, there is no resolution except lies because lies, if not easy to tell authentically, then lies are easy to believe. Lies are flat and square and swallowed with a gulp of a stale water. Lies did not resist. We do not resist to lies.

Lies are someone else’s fault, lies are just a man’s nature, lies are everywhere and unavoidable.

Lies run down his tan forearms into the veins of his hand, lies walk along the white polo shirt upon his shoulders, lies are hidden deep into the mechanics of his blue faced watch. Lies rattle around in his fancy silver cellphone, lies sit on his handsome brow.

He checks his cellphone, his fancy silver fish tragically out of water and dead on the cement table, he checks it even though it has not been ringing. He checks it as if he is waiting, wanting for a call. Or he’s simply obsessive and cannot recall what he is waiting for.

There is no way to count all of the lies wiggling around, they are as plentiful as the maggots resting in the barrel of a rotting cow left in the pasture to burn in the summer sun. They are all the same, and yet every line is unique.

I keep the lies, I hold them in my hand, watching them flop and fly to the ground. I tell the lies, I convince myself of the lies, that they are necessary and good as benign as ants.

I do not miss the lies when they are gone, I do not miss their hungry, parasitic nature. I only miss tendons and ligaments of his arms, and the way of his hands.

I only miss him.