He lies every night, by me;
I look into his bleak, unflattering eyes,
When he confesses his love to me.
I know that it is untrue, but want to believe otherwise.
I feel him slip away,
When I hold him tight,
I see him stumble in the way,
In the bright daylight.
I feel the coldness,
When he makes love,
I hug him and feel him tighten,
Like a stifled dove.
I wish he lied to me,
And I feel sorry for him,
As sad as it may be,
He is living a lie himself.
I lay there staring at the ceiling,
Where the fan rotated like the wheel of a cart.
Knowing fully, that I am the one in his arms,
But I m not, and cannot replace the one in his heart.