One Hundred

Usually framed by black acrylic, his eyes seem naked in contacts.
As much as I hate to admit it, he never needed corrective eyewear to see through me.

The gentle vibrations of his baritone whisper recite cryptic vulgarities that send shivers from the conch of my ear to the arch of my foot.

My skin crawls with lust and loathing.

I want to be far away from him, but his eyes, the eyes that always gave away his lies, keep me from walking away.

Without the distracting frames, it's easier to see inside.

His mind reads like the diary of a heartbroken teenage girl.

And as he stirs his morning coffee, a facsimile of my morning-after coffee, I tell him about you.

He laughs.

Not at me for loving you, but at you for thinking that me loving you was something to fear.