He Lied

He moves my hair away from my face and smiles coyly.
His sly movements resemble a manipulative cat.
Creeping and slouching, crawling slowly and fluidly across my body.
His back curls into mine as he embraces me with his scent,
Woodsy and fresh.
His cool back against mine, facing the other direction as to avoid my eyes.
His eyes lied.
They didn’t dart or look around wildly, though.
His green chasms stared straight into mine.
His eyes never moved, which is what a good liar can do.
He turned over to face my smooth skin, my warm body.
He began breathing calmly and his muscles relaxed,
Drifting into sleep.
His breathing lied.
At some moments, I could barely tell he was alive,
His breaths smooth and silent,
Chest frozen.
Other times he would breathe so hard in his sleep I couldn’t concentrate.
They came short and rapid, long and slick, wet and noisy, fast, slow, fast,
An intricate dance of the lungs, never the same.
Suddenly, he scooted over to his own side o the bed, turning away from me again.
He slept there; his body looked innocent.
He looked gentle, sweet, trustworthy, honest.
His look lied.
The way his hair fell in his face,
The way he stared,
The way he smiled, seductive and scheming, drawing me into his web.
His ears, his nose,
His falsifying mouth, lips pursed and sides twisted in a prevarication.
He arose slyly, peeking at me in hopes of my slumber.
Finding me awake, he said simply,
“I have to go do something. I got a thing. It's-"
“It’s okay,” I replied. “I understand.”
He strutted out the door arrogantly.
His walk lied.
The quick squeak of his shoes on my tile,
His long stride, fluid and sneaky,
His tall body, his long legs.
His fictitious walk led him out my door.