Truth is a Cruel Mistress.
By David Milligan-Croft.
Sometimes, I imagine life like a romantic fairy tale.
There’ll be a pounding at my door.
I’ll go to answer it,
And it will be you – standing
In the pouring rain – breathless,
A suitcase in your hand.
Or, I am walking down the corridor
At work. And I’ll hear my name
Being called. I’ll turn around, and it’s you,
Statuesque, and ready to run
Perhaps my phone rings. It’s you. (Of course.)
Then you say,
‘I need to see you.’
Then, I remember that life isn’t a 90-minute
It’s real. And so is
The fact that you left your job
So you would never have to see me again.
The fact, that I haven’t spoken to you since,
The fact, that I haven’t heard your voice since,
The fact, that I haven’t read your words since,
I told you that you had mistaken my love
As fast, and as far,
As you could
In the opposite direction.
The mere thought of me, repugnant to you.
Truth is a cruel mistress.
So I button my coat
And step outside.
The morning sun warms my face.
I hold out my hand to take yours.
I turn to you and smile.
You smile too.
And we walk into a brand new day.
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