You said you were fine. You said you were ok. You smiled. Or at least your mouth did. I knew you were lying. The doctor phoned too often. Just to speak to you. That far away look you got in your eyes at the window. The way you held me as if every time you did might be your last. Like you wanted to remember the way my chest felt against yours.

The smell of hair.

The taste of skin.

Fingers along a back.

Familiar patterns.

Lies.

Love.