#Poem Anna

I
love you, mange tout.
Your lips fix
my eyes, my prize;
my bliss, to kiss
you.

You
are fond of me, probably,
and allow me to show you
servitude;
and that’s cool,
perhaps you’ll
come to love me.

You,
let me be bad
under bedspread and duvet,
then say I disgust you.
So, can I continue?

I,
presumptuous,
get my comeuppance;
my incompleteness
penalised;
downsized
for a day or two.
What would I do
without you?

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