You tend attentively to friends
with apt degrees of care.
Like your translucent blue chum
who consists, nine-tenths, of air.
How gently you embrace him
so as not to bruise his skin,
while gutturally growling tales
of fights, rough sex and sin.
You know he craves details
about the hearts he never won
or broke, the lusts his frailty kept
him from. He has his darkest fun
imagining what you’ve done –
and indeed, intend again to do –
given the egregiously appalling
reputation that precedes you.