You’re making bedroom eyes at me.
You tilt your head, glance up, and smile
when sure that nobody can see.
But I’m the one you can’t beguile.
I’ve seen you naked, drunk, distraught.
I know each spot in your complexion.
How could you, hopelessly, have thought
your foibles would escape detection?
Your appetite for flattery
is doomed and faintly risible.
You see you when you look at me;
I’m otherwise invisible.
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