A Con Artist

You and I, we have played this game before,
This same game of chess
In early Central Park.
You know the statistics as well
As we can possibly understand the moons
But you play with Southern charm
and a bishop or knight in deep pockets.

Time halts mercilessly
While you fabricate yourself
In a deep, deliberate drawl.
You reach inside your coat
Casually, without
hesitation, and
You cannot speak in the silence.

In this, you somehow tell me
I am beautiful,
In the milisecond you look at me
as though I breathe the air you do,
In this, you make me
cry in your facade, derived from
this
bittersweet
juncture of existences.

I ignore the black pieces you placed atop the board
until you call checkmate
on my white king.