Patchwork

She asked me where I was?
what had I been doing, 
most importantly: who was with me, 
why hadn't I picked up her calls? 

I scanned her pale face,
the red, wet, puffy eyes
and their gentle sparkle.
Fixating on the black mole
on the brink of her nose,
I lied.

She found out eventually.
Cried, and called me a liar,
a cheater.

A tailor.
Sewing on patches of
long-worn clothes and curtains.
Colorful threads, distracting,
hiding the cuts, the imperfections. 
Threading in measured proportion
with different shades of 
green and yellow and red.

Patching it up.

And so I lied.
Filling in my potholes, my cracks.
Making my life a colorful depiction
of a battered construction.
Patchwork.

So I lied.