He is a honey, undoubtedly and wholly
No less sweet nor lacking in viscousness.
On the contrary,
Vestiges of the man stick to the walls of my skull,
Stain my subconscious;
I fear him to be a cavity for the brain,
Spoiling my memories and
Rotting in the depths of my mind
Until the day that my eyes melt out of my head
And my bones collapse onto themselves.
Or, at the minimum,
Until my next climax.
