The average person tells thirteen lies each day.
                  —Dr. Georgia Witkin

One, on a day much like any other, I awake with alarm
clock blaring, turn to you, and say, "Your face
is no longer imprinted on my heart."

Two, I aim a dart to the groin, say I’ve taken a paramour.

Three, he’s a man who loves
to build things, handles the adze, hammer, and awl—
his muscular arms, laden with 2 x 4’s, an aphrodisiac.

Four, I say he lives under the cover
of the Witness Protection Program, his name a secret.

Five, he smokes a pipe and smells like figs.

Six, I say he’s a gymnast
in bed, master of every position in the Karma Sutra,
knows what a yoni is and brings it to blossom.

Seven, I praise his intellect, list books he’s read—
Remembrance of Things Past and all twelve volumes
of Dance to the Music of Time which you once insisted
could only be done if one were sentenced to life
in prison, no possibility of parole.

Eight, his sense of humor coruscates. He juggles
double-entendres, scorns puns, perceives irony, relishes
repartée, never steals a punch line, cherishes my bon mots.

Nine, he pens novels of Russian proportions, is adored
by the literati, writes poetry, too, his last collection
favorably reviewed by William Logan.

Ten, he’s slender, a man of sartorial splendor,
whose every garment I’ve memorized--his blue jeans,
each turtleneck, tank, and tee, every sock in his drawer,
and his hiking boots in which he does not walk
but strides like a man on a mission.

Eleven, he hates watching sports on tv, prefers to toss
a salad, knows every kind of lettuce.

Twelve, each morning in our special hotel he brings me
one perfect pastry from the pâtisserie. He bites
from one end, I the other, the custard between us sweet
as French kisses, our tongues foraging like bees
in blossoms, our faces plastered with chocolate.

Thirteen, I turn off the lights and recant, swear
I made him up, fingers crossed behind my back.
I produce tears and fall upon your chest,
and confess, and confess, and confess.