I have imagined romances in my head.
They have taken form, and flight;
I have flirted with my eyes.
Hinted and mystified
And swivelled my hips --
Which, in daydreams,
Bow like opulent cursive,
Like the crook of a finger
In lewd suggestion.

It is all an image of self-obsession.
In these dreams,
With the blessing of a third eye,
I sharpen in focus, and the objects
Of my so-called "affection"
Are just that - a crumbling blur,
Held together with the indignation
Of dashed hopes
And a vicious desire
To prove myself.

My skin gleams, my wit sparkles.
I fetishise myself.
I brood,
Just often enough for it to be interesting.
I do everything right.
But at the crucial moment,
The target dissipates
In my shaking, greedy hands --
White knuckles and bright pink shame.
And all behind my eyelids.

Dry lips and the realisation of vanity.
The human instinct is to seek comfort
But I have a bragging,
Braying whine about me.
Because I am an ass,
Kicking and screeching,
And I protest with religious fervour
My burdens, my lowly failings,
My dragging feet and bruised ego
And I am sorry but I think I've lost your love.

The End

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