Every time I see you I become less honest.
With so much life between one visit and the next,
Had I not rather flatter, than fluster you with candour?
No, I refuse.
I go for less polite and slightly grating,
And speak my mind uncensored, as before.
More to the point than pleasantries.
So when I see you next and say
“What awful perfume!” and
“What dreadful hair!” you understand
I mean to say
I love you still.
© jsmorgane (April 09)