I conceal meditations of that subjective tense from myself,
where clues of why your syntax may be indifference to myself.
I fasten onto your way of conjugating my ache until
I become the persuasive phrase you’d gauge innocence in myself.
When I can pen your hair into gold, the lucrative emerges,
but your daunting ease drains silver from the eloquence of my self.
Stretch taut my desire over the copper of your framework’s embrace,
and in esteem’s calligraphy – stained to permanence through my self.
Parchment-ready for prurient brushes with the ink of glances,
I inhale and find in the thesaurus of confidence: my self.
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