Vanity (pastiche)

In vain I wrote my name with aftershave
to permeate her skin.

And, as I hugged
her tightly to my shoulder, I still gave
no thought to the effect - for I just tugged
her T-shirt from the blade, until I bit
her achingly;

My teeth were really set
upon their grip, determined not to quit
until I'd marked her mine: perfect and, yet,
she leaned into me, gently, for a word
or two to draw my breath;

Was this to save
me from myself? For this was quite absurd:
these bruises would not give her all she'd crave.

"Vain man," she smiled. "You'll find I am immune."
As I had known, given she was perfumed.