Wandering Poet: Professional Liar

He could tell a story, create a world, bring characters to life on cue. Fabricating whatever was most amenable to the people around him at the current time was what he lived for. To create a comfortable environment in which everyone would enjoy their time. He was a professional liar: a poet. That’s what poets did, they lied about everything. A boring flower could be brought to the forefront of its peers by comparing it to a gem. A man who fell in battle with little honor and no great deeds could be exalted to a heroic status merely by recounting his family and highlighting the fact that he must have been fighting for them with a pure heart and mind – regardless of the truth to that statement.

He was a liar, through and through. Yet even he couldn’t keep this facade up forever. That’s what this was, too: a facade. Every time a hand caught the other, every stolen glance, every beautifully flushed cheek…they all meant something. Both of them knew it, breath being caught whenever the truth was in front of them. He couldn’t breathe half the time they were near each other; whenever those startlingly blue eyes widened, his throat closed.

His throat closed just now, thinking about it. He had not answered her quiet accusation, and he was glad he had not. The thought ran through his mind, and it even made its way to the tip of his tongue, but he managed to hold it back. His response would have been short: “It was.”

Those two words would have destroyed their facade. Their lie. They were puppets, pulling each other’s strings. She knew what to say to keep him mere inches from answering, and he knew what to say to keep her from running away. It was a delicate balance, thinner than the finest parchment. One misstep by either of them, right now, and it would tear. And he would fall.

He was a liar, but even he could not lie through truth as strong as what he felt when he looked at her. Not forever. As a poet, he understood and appreciated the value of patience. Some of the greatest love stories of all time included years apart and sometimes working years together before feelings were fully realized; they were beautiful and stoic.

He was not. He was a nineteen year old man, living in a foreign land he would have left months ago, if not for those blue eyes. The facade couldn’t last for all of time, deep down he knew it; but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. There was too much to lose.

One thought on “Wandering Poet: Professional Liar

  1. Heeeeee.

    I adore the various similes– I think ‘professional liar’ takes the cake, though, with the parchment and puppet strings tied in second.

    Read it twice. ❤

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