Envy

Her fingerprints-
the withering sheets;
A livid haze
and amaranth;

A twisted arm,
A smirking face-
A tired moan
Slithering by;

Acrophobic,
Yet there I stood-
The anfractuous height,
And another spasm;

It was her skin,
Betwixt his lips
But I can't complain-
It wasn't my night, was it?

Who am I to?
I'll pay her, like he did;
And wait for tomorrow-
“Eleven-thirty, dearest.” she said.

And I sneered at those fragments of limestone,
That knew her more than I could;