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[The sonnet's possibilities for creepiness are too often overlooked.]

My love, it's true that we have never met
But what is that? I know your every look.
You want my love, and what you want you get.
That photo finish, I know what it took.
Your outfits, how you dress for every shot;
The poses that you plan and practice well;
The mirror where you think up every plot,
The bedroom you have sweetened for your cell
Where diode glow lights up your staring face
Absorbed in silent filters' midnight work
Until the philtre, glazed with conscious grace
Assumes its place enwrapped in subtle quirk.
   My lily love my eyes are mirrors too
   Sway over me and see me seeing you.