Jealous...?
How green-eyed was my monster
when her impart of the written word
graced tablets of electro-stone?
The marbled screen hummed smugly,
a static-driven accapella
singing of my chances blown.
Did I crumble, did I rock
or clasp white talons to my heart,
howling like a wounded cur?
Or did I feel an empty space
in silence open at me feet,
a grave that swallowed thoughts of her?
How cool were my responses,
epistles glided down the wire
her conscience to impinge?
"I am not," I said, "the jealous type,"
and though machismo won't concede,
I may have felt a twinge...
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