Erato

I envy you, for never are your hands
too distant from your body, from the gasp
that shapes into my grip, the stream-cool strands
of hair that seek between my fingers' grasp.
It's maddening, to know you can forget
the way some curve might brush against your arm.
Why would you feel these sobs of hot regret
when your hands leave your pockets? Though it harms
my peace of mind, I can't but think you dare
seize every lonely moment, arch of smile,
to exult yourself in touch (while mine are rare),
declaiming your own beauty all the while.
We can't see our own faces, it is true,
except in mirrors—thus I'll be to you.