Your intimations that I have become subfusc are...
I am no naïf, your lofty fustian hits as hard as
simple iambic words of disapproval.
Am I imagining your miasma?
Or have you tired so of my insecurities
I have made you into this caitiff.
Our amity gone – a mere patina.
Surrounded by kitsch, I silently cry,
still finding you so infatuating.