Jessy Assy

This finger-pointing

starts with you,

intensifies with me,

and starts ricocheting

straight back to you:

You mean more, but you say less;

I mean less, but I say more.

You masque your guile with laughter;

I conceal mine with silence.

In our flimsy attempt

to divert attention

we’ve unintentionally

set off all of the alarms

as I write the words

I did not know

you were thinking,

and you speak

the words

you were not aware

I was writing.

Lies and truths

begin to osmose,

and emerge

as saturated lies

and partial truths

signaling how sometimes,

it’s less about the things we say

and more about the things we don’t say-

like when you’re driving me home,

I’ve started rambling again,

and suddenly,

there is a deafening silence,

which you think I haven’t noticed

as I find myself craving:

you,

a bottle of red wine,

soft music,

and fresh fruits-

only minus the wine,

the music,

and the fruits.

So I ask you

what it is

that you were thinking about.

“the road”, you say

as you reek of lies,

so foul

their stench gets

mirrored in those

refractive drops

beginning to curve neatly

at the side of my eyes.

and just like that,

you remind me of a Paris memory

I never had.