Sweet Nothings
I whispered to your offered ear
what you were whispering to mine.
I whispered what I thought
you wanted me to whisper,
not only not to disappoint,
but because I half-believed
that, if I said it, I might feel it
or something like it, near it,
less unrevealing, closer
to what I wanted to be feeling,
what I was sure you, whispering
back the same words, felt.
At such a distance
from that time and place,
how easy it is, even,
in a way, consoling,
to finally realize the fooling
had all along been mutual,
and that the whispered wished for
feelings we would later
blame each other
for not feeling were nonetheless
offered, if not in good faith,
not with the worst intentions,
with no betrayal to confess
besides this failure to
repay the debt
of a pretended, not
untender, tenderness
we led each other to expect.
