your brows are creased,
like when you said you loved me,
surrounded by the fall leaves,
the lies lazing on your tongue.

i hope you don't breathe with your lungs,
your lies are enough.

'run, my dear,'
off my tongue, this rolls.
'my love, the lies might win your wept soul.'
'run,' whispers your dead body.

i hope i don't breathe with my lungs,
my tears are enough.