They look alike, but just not quite like twins,
brothers at least. One's pale, more elegant
more of a gentleman, than him whose kind
soft touch upon my forehead gives me rest
upon his cradling hand. His smile's a dream
white poppy petals in my mind like snow
wiping out pain and grief and joy and soul
just for a while. I'm done with him. I want
the real stuff now, that lasts. He'll come to me
woo me, the thin white duke and ravish me
Oh sleep's OK but death is better still.
And best of all not ever to have been.