The Liar

It’s three o’clock in the morning, and I’m woken by his incessant snoring. The stale stench of sex is in the air and the only light is that of the computers white hot glare. Here I lay, his legs entwined with mine, not knowing that in less than three months, I will consider this wasted time. And I lie there cold – he’s not into blankets. Or sheets for that matter, the mattress is thankless. But like the loving girlfriend, I question none of this, nor his motives, nor the slight hesitation in his last kiss. He sleeps pleasantly, having come three times — his happiness in globs of white, buried away out of sight. I observe his chest heave and sigh, the slow rumbling escaping his mouth into the silent night. I used to love this about him, this one physical flaw – and because he declared it over, I hear it no more.