Tonight, as I ate stale fries in the car,
after getting back home,
my seatbelt still around me,
struggling to keep me in place,
I realized that perhaps my fantasies
of you finishing in my mouth
after you've brushed yourself against me
with inhuman vigorousness
are flawed insofar as they are purely
and only that: Masturbatory imaginings,
the eroticism of which stems from
a vacuous distance asking
to be traversed bearing bones
that know you by name,
that are meant to cling to you like armor.
In my dreams I wear the body of beautiful boys
whose only past time is ensuring
the persistence of my pleasure—
you are King among them,
a garland of lilies around your neck,
a crown of carnations around your head.
Yet, tonight, as I ate stale fries in the car,
I realized that the Kingdom of my Dreams,
which you rule with majestic temptation,
is unreachable except by sleep or myth.