Love Lies

 

(On Reading Shakespeare’s Sonnet 138 and Arguing Over Whether Cynicism Can Be Tender)

 

 

You lie, I lie, and lying, lie together;

and where and how we lie’s of little note,

except that in our lies we can’t say whether

it’s heart, or mind, or tongue on which we dote.

Should we lie still when lying still awake

to wonder how our lonely lover lies,

or ask if lying lover’s hearts still ache,

or wonder if and when the truth is wise?

The weary world aside, dare we assume

that true love (more or less) must lie alone,

and lonely lying is a lover’s doom?

Why should a lover’s lies cause us to moan,

unless, in lying, we, like thieves who steal

what lovers love, no longer know what’s real?