Harvest or Salvage

Why she's attracted, I'll never understand.
We're like the 12 o'clock and the 1 o'clock hand:
Farthest in time, but our hands touch closest.
But can she see in me my harvest?

Harvest or salvage?

In her there is nothing to salvage but everything to harvest.
But in her this idea is farthest.
She's the best of my worst parts.
And by such am I undone by her arts.

Arts or artifice?

She nods when I speak and interest leaks
Though not entirely my ranting drinks.
She listens like solving some puzzle box
Without eyes adjusted to my dark crux.

And, simply, I am guilty of the same

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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