To Tell the Truth

Time is like headlights. We mistake it for stars.
Not wanting to tell you—I do. And nothing—
not the vodka on the plane, nor the sound
 
of my suitcase rolling me in 
can seduce my shames 
to silence. 
 
On the roof you tell me 
you could love me. Your hands 
stretch my dress, that hot white lace.
 
Is this what it means to love you?
To smile for a week’s pleasure,
and submit to the long after,
 
a decade-long goodbye. At turns,
I want to throw myself
in front of the stars.

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