Orbuculum Lies [it’s our favorite song]

by Charlotte E. Wilde

Gypsy king with a red Gibson, complete with vibrato purrs and perfectly shined Zorzettos, you lie like you were born reading minds. Can’t tell if it’s the stage or the throne I put you on that has the added benefit of a panoramic view. Either way, it’s not surprising ’cause I’ve always been attracted to the flip of chance and I guess, if nothing else, our double-faced love keeps me on my toes.

Let’s consider the weight of the game: when even pennies are predisposed to falling face down, two out of three isn’t great odds. Maybe you weren’t chasing tail, but with a little chance you’re still getting head[s].

I’m not blind. The only thing you love more than me is the thrill of the chase. Idol worship and a national desire; you’re a festival, a one man band of beating lashes and broken [heart] strings. You want them all; why have one [micro] when you could have two? What luck, sound-checking hip swings and paid in cachets to fill all those [shopping] [h]arts with pipe-dreams. You say you’re in it for the music, not the glory, but alcohol whispers you alive and want-to-come-up’s start to sound like fringe benefits to a [lie] worth living.

And why not? I’m asleep but you’re busy making history. Inédit. Interdit. Another story gone to ground.

Imagine this, midnight mind: She’s whispering “we can’t.” Negative lips but positive eyes and you’re probably picturing both wrapped around your cock… which should repel me, but somehow just makes me wonder if the lamp’s on or off, the color of the bedspread, and does she leave her clothes on the floor like I do?

You used to tell me it was all in my head but I remember how it felt the first time you looked at my skin. I remember how your alleyways left marks on my breasts and your lips curled back over teeth that bit harder than hearts.  I remember, and still, like a shit song, I can’t seem to get this out of my head.

In the end, I’m the one who’s been playing us on repeat, skipping to the good parts, stringing myself along. It isn’t clairvoyance but certainly you’ve never been what you seemed; what you said.

Recognition comes slowly– surprising, like a cat’s kiss. This time, I’m the fortune teller; gypsy queen with a resophonic heart.

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