it’s not you, it’s me

you drive me to solipsism.

though I spend hours thinking

of the curve of your lips

and the soft of your fingers,

you are not my muse.

I could not care less for your hands

or your smile, too preoccupied

with myself

to be awed by your splendor.

it is not your touch that enraptures me,

but the feel of my skin

beneath it.