everything was perfect for what it meant to be
the sand on your chest
and it being stuck in the excess fat of your inner thighs
that was usually covered when you were outside
in public
under the sunlight
on the beach
or inside your house
everything was perfect.
having waterfront sex with hot seminal sunshine dripping on my hot honeydew
but nothing was actually perfect.
there was uncooked cow liver on the bеd i hoped you’d lie in someday
and for what seemеd soft, invisible and tucked under my weight at all times
it was solidified, visible and groped in the palm of my left hand
shaken with passion
covered in cow blood
waiting for a natural reaction
that only of cow liver could bring a kool aid-believer
i could only act like the saint i was the day portnoy’s complaint got into my head
but it was perfect, regardless
of what they thought