high tea with lovers

oh, you. who never speaks a word
but carefully investigates the world in which
i live as if to follow me there.
which i will not allow.
and oh, he! whose eyes have developed
an unnatural intensity each blessed time
they rest on mine,
tinging my skin warm with their fever.
you, sir, are that mildly angering sensation,
a provoking itch which surfaces only when
one is buried deep under the comforting blankets
of one's own bed, in that blissful state of
hallucination before dreaming,
that agitation which corrupts the languid peace
of rest.
and oh, he! he is that euphoric daydream, that
fiber of being which has no being,
who cradles my affection in his eyes until
you spoil the rapturous interaction with a flick
of your milky eyes,
shattering our silent, hidden discourse of
i have thee not, and yet i see thee still.
yes, you, sir, fill my very soul with nothing more
than overpowering blandness,
the lifeless stare of one who is not
or the emptyness of sugar-free coffee cakes.
and oh, but he! he floods my entirety with fiery
sucrose which is thoroughly forbidden
and tastes all the sweeter for it.
i am to you as a delusion, an apparition,
a hypothetical situation only loosely based upon
reality,
a glittering mirage all the more desirable
as it cannot be captured.
but oh, to him! i am the sugar pot at high tea,
reflective of himself and filled with such warmth,
making life more bearable
upon melting into it, and
really all one came for in the first place.