I like your narcissism -- the way you carry your reflections
From the mirror, and from my eyes; the way you watch them --
No strain, aside -- and slide to light, unnoticed, from your shadows.
Yes, you make me create for you your tones and poses.
I like your cynicism -- the secret room where you sit naked,
Looking out of your window, down, at changing fashion,
And dreaming of my hands to touch your shoulders, neck and ankles.
Yes, you make me forget my clothing by your staircase.
I like your bitterness -- which I would never touch in others --
Cutting hands with the splinters of the doors and windows
You broke, when you were seeking me inside the slums of slumber.
Yes, you make me desire your scars across my fingers.