She calls love easy.
She says it’s bright, and pure.
That it fuels lives.
That her universe would collapse if it ever ran dry of love.
That it soothes the pain.
That all this while, love has kept her breathing.

She turns her eyes to me, and half-smiles.
She knows that I know she is feeding lies in her poetry.
She knows I know what’s lying under her tattoos.
She knows I know she prefers to keep her bra on when we make love to hide the bloody streak that runs under her left breast.
She knows I haven’t brought it when she called the stitch marks on her inner thighs as her birthmarks.
She looks at me, half smiles, and continues.

She keeps praising love.
Adding proses in its admiration.
Saying the only invincible is love.
Saying it is as soft as water.
And as strong as water.
That if it is true, it would never cease.
And that if it has ceased, it was never love.
That, at times, it may subdue.
And, at times, it may test you for your patience.
But if it is true, it would never cease.

She looks towards me, and holds her gaze.
And everybody stands and applauds.
She bows and brushes her hair behind her ears, and her tattoos shine.
Tattoos that camouflage cigarette burns.
Tattoos that say love has never been easy to her.
Neither bright nor pure.
But, indeed true. And ceaseless.
She still talks about him with a spark in her eyes.
And I listen to her with a spark in mine.

She finds me, and straight into my arms.
And she whispers: I wasn’t lying. I was speaking about your love for me.

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