As this virus defies us, last night,
alone, I inhaled dust, specks of fungi,
toxins, traces of you in the moonlight ––
gorged on my engorged flesh. Last night, with my
boxers down around my knees, my debased
body wound tight, my hand encircling
my cock: such sweet flesh, what you’ll never taste
again, what you called my one, “redeeming
quality.” At least I have one. Impaled
on my pale flesh I can still taste the blood
when you bit my fat lip and made me mewl.
That was fun. But this? Last night I exhaled
air and much more. Odd, I thought that the crud
that’d take me down would be far more carnal.