He doesn’t know how much he’s loved,
albeit ectoplasmically.
His amatory gain and game was lust,
which gratified orgasmically
but ceased now much to interest him.
He often dreams he’s in a realm
of roseate amorphousness
which never doesn’t overwhelm
the heart he doesn’t think he has.
Still, something tugs. He is embraced,
meanwhile, though he can’t see or feel it,
by a big blue phantom who had traced
an errant tendril of this young man’s spirit
which had somehow floated out and up
beyond the atmosphere to lure
the phantom down – to the abrupt
decision that the point of its existence
was to love this loner like a son.
We wish we could report a happy ending.
Perhaps one day there will
be one.
.
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