You sleep cushioned in silky confines,blanketed with an innocence
that is deft, and maybe hence devious
whilst I idolate the artful nuances of you.
You smell of French revolutions,
but I linger not in that history for my attentions are hinged on
the rise and fall of other utopias
and here I am well and truly guillotin.ed
I chance a wary and envious touch
near the suburbs of your forearm
and there is an uproar on your skin at my trespassing.
A stand raisedagainst my infringement.
Disgusted, I stare in condescension at soiled and unworthy hands and frown.
Those faltering lines do not draw pretty pictures
as I fold a fist to hold what is slipping away.
You awaken not at the interruption nor at my presence
and as my shadow mars your beauty,
return to dreams of unknown delights where I am excluded,
behind eyes that shut me out.
This is why I hate you.
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