i follow his meter, his verse,
praying his tricky intent is sincere -
an obsession i know is somewhat perverse.

i wait - i watch him drink a warm beer
and think of the fingering foam on his tongue,
wanting to fuck him though gripped by fear.

i told all my friends that he was well-hung,
a rumor that proved my absence of taste
and fell from his ladder - missed the last rung -
he was so enthralled by my lack of grace.
i now see distinctly how this ridicule
mistakes love’s image for carnal embrace -

how his stories collide at the pinnacle,
and this man i love seems a sizeable waste.
yet i follow his meter, his verse,
deluded, alluding to something perverse,
and incredulous how this man has the nerve
to push me from weak to worse.