I remember the term was from the Latin–mos, more–to share, a custom–

Thinking aloud that Roots for words matter, smugly.

However true that may be, I would use it against you.

How could do this or that? How could you look him in the eye?

“How could you” —

As if action must always be circumspect;

As if always subject to interrogation;

As if the heart were there like some organism, mindless–

What a conceit of our time! What of my conceit!

That I would call you out for your crime of passion:

“How could you cheat on him and still have Easter Brunch!”

I have to admit I was disgusted.

I mean, even Lucifer deserves the truth,

for isn’t that what he brought to Eve (the woman first, of course!), knowledge?

But here I am drawing comparisons — he isn’t Lucifer!

But he’s certainly a being,

A human deserves no less the truth than anyone, or any thing, else!

Or do you thrive on such deception?

Or am I astonished, taken aback, because you may have done this to me?

That at every dinner, every event, every time we argued or smiled, kissed or embraced,

You concealed a part of yourself you knew was immoral?

That you could not share with me that secret–

Because you knew that to share it was to end us?

Because you knew it would end our sharing all together?

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