A Picture Perfect Lie

“Hey Baby,” you say and stroke my arm.

You nod, flashing that quick grin that only you can.

I blush internally or sigh and shrug, and look down at the ground.

I picture you strumming that guitar. I picture your arm around my neck. I picture you whipping me with that belt.

How I picture. I picture. I picture.

My God, did we make a mess of this.

And the truth is, our affair was real . . . but our ideals, our expectations, our naivete - what we imagined, pretended we could have - well baby, that was a lie.

And oh, how we knew it. We said it. We knew it from the start.

But God damn, it was a nice idea. A nice thought. A real pipe-dream.

It was a picture perfect lie.

I packed my bags to run away with you.

Two lost souls; two vagabonds on a mission to live a life of defiance. A life beyond confines.

And just if we could have done it, that lie would have been beautiful. Exquisite even.

Of course we didn’t, we couldn’t.

But I must say, it really was and forever will be . . . a picture perfect lie.