Should I Simply Say   The deceiver, deceived. The lie a web, catching the liar.   I want to believe this.   But shit, I don't believe much today. In purple splintered sunset, I walk this beach. And wonder if I should call a girl friend; tell her I'm sleeping in public toilets, next to the ocean, where derelicts roam.   Would she believe I didn't know a touch would blind me like Oedipus. Or a breath would condemn me like the Greek to wander alone. And that the desert would be in my head?   When all the time, I only wanted the taste of her mouth, needed the smell of her body.   But her eyes so bright blinded me. And she cried, "love's hurting me. Too much pain." And then, the wind stirred, the curtain fluttered, and the moon shone on her breasts. Naked she walked across my empty room. Somewhere a door closed.   Or should I say, sometimes, before sleep, I lie still trying to see her face. Feel her warmth. Taste.   As outside on the street, a car door slams. A woman laughs, then shrieks. And later, as the street grows quiet again, the night settles in and curls into my room like a street cat.   Strange. As I write this I can't remember what her face looks like. There are no images now. Nothing's left.   I find no rest in any thoughts. My ideas still skip and try to dodge the truth of her.   I never knew her angers, she didn't know them either. And when we were together, she couldn't tell me. I regret that.   Where is she now? Who is the new man? Does she lie down in quiet nights to sleep next to this man?   Does she put her leg between his, and bury her face in his chest? And then, just as she tries to let go and really love someone, will she be unable to remember his name? Won't be able to recall it? Or recollect just how to say it?   Just can't. Just won't.   And as she turns her head away on the cold pillow, the man next to her won't matter.   Not at all.   Or should I simply say the moon shone on her breasts?     - Steve De France