One of a score of poems written over the past year or so, this one about the girl of a friend. Forgive me if it takes a somewhat complaining tone.

Untouchable; pristine,
You're woolen strychnine,
Toxic temptress, you don't even know it,
My heart beats quicker for you,
But I cannot show it;Not wanting, I throw it.

Crying, "I do not want this",
Dying, you fill my veins,
Backward, I rhyme,
Feel worse, for this crime
Not of passion, but of desire.
I quash my fire.

You hold the hand, My cheek twitches,
I look to my wrist, it itches,
And you are not there,
You're on his arm, smiling,
The face that adorns your pictures,
And I sit, at the side,
covered by the frame, I hide,
I write.

The End

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