3/18/11

Lies in B Major
By Rochelle Germond


I sit on the edge of your bed and listen to you strum, because you promised you would finish the song in the morning. The voyeuristic sun is peering through the half-clothed panes, casting her familiar gaze on your shirt and the way its hem grazes my kneecaps. It was cast off last night after you convinced me I would sleep better without its threadbare weight pressed against my skin, replacing its gray knit with your claiming limbs instead.

I’m surrounded by a heat that has nothing to do with this season, as your fingertips stop, linger on the neck, waiting. The last line is caught in the restless air, kept company by past disappointments and the vices used to forget them.

The next one will be about you, and I know this is not the first time your lips have kissed this whisper, but my ears are fatally charmed. The sun averts her eyes. She’s witnessed this too many times before, she could sing the ending lie for lie.


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Rochelle is a student at the University of South Florida in Tampa, where she is studying Creative Writing and Education. Her vices are massive amounts of coffee, somewhat obscure Indie-Rock bands, and yoga. She enjoys sunsets and the beach, but not long walks.