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He will hate me for knowing it,
Loathe her for thinking it,
Wish himself free of it,
Keep the triangle caught in it.

I am not a Pompadour,
Nor a Maintenon or Montespan.
He is not the Sun or it’s son.
He is low and I am less.

His gaze of rays doesn’t shine on me,
But passes me over, though I know he sees.
He will remember, preserved in a memory,
Trapped in that moment, that touch.

She will fade, grow dull by time.
I will linger in thought, in mind.
My touch, my lips, my breath.
I will be his vice, she the victor.