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I envy the pen in your hand
for knowing the rasp of your calluses
and resting against the corner of your mouth
while you are considering your next line.


I envy the lamp on the shelf behind you;
I envy every particle of light that finds its way
to the curve of your shoulder,
or bounces in a flash of copper off your hair.


I envy the rain for kissing your face and neck
a thousand times in the time it takes me
to imagine doing it only once,
very thoroughly.


I envy the cigarette between your first and second finger,
because it makes a liar of you
every time you tell me,
"Darling, you'll be the death of me."

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