“I’m a grouch on a couch, full-blown grumpus,”
you moan. “Lockdown sucks.” Friendship will never
tear us apart; though sexting between us
almost did. I wanted a fuck-daughter.
“I lack discipline,” you’d write, sending me
photos of the hot figure-eight you’d traced
across your panties. “Times infinity.”
Apparently you’ve found it. I erased
everything you’d sent me like I promised
to do. There no shame in having second
thoughts. I’m poor father material, but
I can take pride in you. Somewhere lust must
wait for me to come, horny and orphaned,
wanting more from me than just a sonnet.