I could never find the courage to lie to you,

But the absence of lies denotes not the presence of truth.

A hero is not born by the lack of his faults

Nor an angel bred by want of wickedness.

The strongest steel is not forged of fewest weaknesses,

And the wheat of truth cannot be separated from chaff of falsehood.

There is an ambivalent middle betwixt all such things,

And, for this, the middle is me.

For the truth is no single-shaped monolith.

It defies geometry with its shifting dimensions

Spites artists with its indescribable colours

And pities Occam with its unthinking logic.

The truth is an instrument no musician can learn to play

And a tool no carpenter will bring to wood.

It is not the water we pour into glass pitchers

But the stentorian wave that pours over us.

For what truth is ever truly true

And not merely a closely managed assortment

Of facts to arrange a more amiable fiction?

And which delicacies would I arrange for you

In this assorted box of chocolate truths:

The sweetened croquet of infantile infatuation,

The honeyed coffret of stomach butterflies and sweaty palms,

The bitter amandine of researched personality and scripted performances,

The sour marquise of faked laughter and uncomfortable friendship,

The tasteless praline of doubt?

Would I share my desire to know every detail of your history

And let it melt on your delicate tongue

Before offering the acerbic pill

Of how stories often bore me

And I how still prefer, however fleetingly,

To enclose myself into a palatial Versailles

Of my own, private ponderances?

Would I say that your mind is what enraptured my gaze

When your turquoise-flashing eyes

Keep me up at night just the same

And my fingers still ache to traverse

The streams of your toffee-flavoured hair

Like scraggy canoes forming ripples across an endless, flowing river?

Would my confession of eternal love and gratitude

Still be true in the greys of early morning

When I beheld your tranquil body

And felt peace from my companionship

And no concern for who that companion was?

Would I tell you that I cannot speak in your presence

Unless I have practiced it ad nauseam for hours

Screaming at the bathroom tiles

For not returning my affection?

(I think my mirror knows more secrets

Than my last three loves combined.

At least its lips are still sealed in glass.)

Would I paint us a sunny picture

Of our future in each other's arms

And neglect to add the darker tones

Of the storm clouds I saw gathering

Beneath our idyllic sun?

Would I ask you to a quiet dinner

To stuff raw fish into our watering mouths

And hide the fear rising steadily in my middle

Or the sadness welling in the backstage of my soul

When you ask to split the cheque?

Would I state that you interest me

Without offering what interests me more

And heap compliments of which you're undeserving

Hoping to hear positive insincerities in return?

Would I ask questions about your homeland

Without listening to your replies

Already equipped with pre-generated platitudes

About how our incalculable differences can all be bridged

By our meaningless similarities.

Would I say I'm intrigued by your culture

And eat heartily new cuisines while soaking in new ideas

Only to balk at learning your impossible language

And label your beliefs barbaric superstitions?

And what if I succeeded

If I conquered my fears

Or they were shown to be illegitimate?

What if you harboured feelings for me

Like those I've buried away for you?

What if you were as desperate as I for human contact

And as indiscriminate as I am in finding connection?

What if you accepted my truths and altered your habits

As I believed your lies and pretended to reform?

What if you found domestication survivable

And I appreciated your unhinging of my wildness?

What if we compromised and negotiated

Until we had forgotten our original positions

And bled ourselves into one another

Until our blood was no longer just our own?

What would I say then?

Would I say that I loved you

Given the absence of alternatives?