A lie is best when there is as much truth as possible within the dark recesses of its existence. A lie lives and breathes when first created by the lips of those who have the residue of creation’s power dusted upon their dying form.
They separate me from what I love
His skin is bronzed between the grime of war and the setting sun. He wields the sword that was drawn forth from the earth and formed by madness and genius. I am formed of him and separate by design my very soul different and similar.
What holds us is truth disguised by desire laid bare by need and put deep within the fire of a love we shout at times is only lust. I shout it to his back when he cannot hear me, when he is married to his duty and I mired in self-pity.
His face etched deep between age and scars softens when he sees me, I feel my expression harden and my skin parched.
“Lies, my love,” he says, settling the sword down upon the hearth once again, “are best when soaked in truth but no lies exist under this roof, so let the world spin without us.”