It wasn’t your hands

or your face

or your truths.

It wasn’t you at all.

Yours are the hands

I crave, to touch

My aching, trembling core.

Yours is the face

I wish to see

In the waking hours.

Yours are the truths

I desperately seek

In your compassing eyes.

It was his hands

and his face

and his lies.

It’s not you I fear.