Mourn the ill-starred lover,
Whose soul is torn in two:
His heart is his beloved's, but
His eye is watching you.
He forms his many reasons,
He tells himself he's fine,
But living this dichotomy
Gets harder all the time.
He separates his passions,
If lies can separate,
And satisfies the purer one
While you he contemplates.
You are his cup of poison
With which he wets his lips,
But passion kills the aftertaste,
As poison steals the kiss.