Portraits of 19th Century politicians conceal half-remembered

Whispers from your lovesick lips and in the gallery standing
I put my hands down to feel the blue carpet in your room
And pulling at it rough the crunching sound of bunched fabric
Under nails and your eyes wandering to me
We both seem far too sober for this
And I think about going to wash for you
We end up brushing our teeth together after in a marriage
We’ll never see and making a great show of timidity
I slide my trousers down carefully obscuring
Until I’m beneath your sheets and you ask
This honest face this suddenly looking in my eyes
I stole a tiny piece of your heart there
But that’s not what a 19th century face would do
That’s not quite suitable will ruin the portrait
And you go cold as I cuddle you
And now in the morning awake I put away my brushes.

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