Jonathan Butcher

A Confession

An overt flash of a sudden
crowd, no solitude keeping 
us under false pretentions.
That shimmer in the darkness
from those eyes that widen 
with each word, that falls
from your tongue and rests
at my feet. 

The last thing any of us need
is another round of drinks, 
that we drag together with
end of the month scrapings.
Again we remain closed, 
as another murmuring
of questions is on the cards, 
pulled from an incomplete deck.  

Singular street lights make
double shadows, which hide
me from your temptations. 
allowing me to mask that frown
that you trigger with each 
sentence. I escape that slow
pendulum swing, that once
again, fails to hypnotize.  

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