Others have promised heaven, which is odd
since that’s not my heart’s delight (that would be

a subaquatic sex pad) but I nod
all the same because we are trying. We

both know that we’ll never meet. All those text ––
threats of being besties, of cum, of bliss

–– end the same each time. I use to be vexed
with that. Five hundred weeks (without a kiss,

without a lover, without the passion
I write of) is craptastic but honest.

A chaste decade. Let heaven be a fuck
squad of friends in a submarine of sin

in the Seine. But who gets heaven when lust
can’t be reached? I dream of cum and havoc.