I watch him watch the three Tudors take their throne—
unwavering eyes studying the king and queen, I press my knuckles into his spine.
Regal disposition and I concur:
he is a lord and I, a hand maid.
A golden touch, his long fingers wavering above jewels and chains, a delicate touch.
He wears his wealth like he wears his vitality. And he wears his vitality, just like he wears me.
I am immortally encased in his opal palace, forever serving only him.
He has a queen, a queen with red roses pricking her skin and I have one daisy to keep in my hair, picking it apart, hoping he is one of the petals.
And her heart shaped lips are everything, compared to my dirty face that admires his powerful step against the white marble floors.
With every sip he takes from his golden, sapphire encrusted wine glass, I become intoxicated, but not from the blood-colored alcohol.
From the way he moves, and shifts his eyes, pink fingertips directing his subjects, I am drunk.
He is a noble king, one I should hate, and so I curse his name, his sweet whispers laughing through the walls, and into my ear.
