Love survives mostly on trust, they who know its intricacies say, for trust contains the essential—truth, betrayal is made of lies. But they don’t know the synapses, have never felt the senses wane. They think the truth is his to tell while she, her mind, melts to mud, before it returns to dust. “I’m going out for groceries,” he says with a kiss and hug. Then walks to where our hearts contrive to talk and share a beer. We speak of love and some of lies, and share a laugh he much deserves. Then back at home his kiss again, “The food is in the fridge.”