A love song in the time of pestilence.
I shall not ask for your hand in marriage without a mask on your face.
Surprises are like viruses that diminish the potencies of passions.
Do not touch my body when you brush pass me on a cool summer
evening of shaded trees and spotlighted cars rushing by who knows where.
Gather your feelings when your bloom flowers, when your jogging body
pass mine so close. I can smell your breakfast to come, your orgasms
with your flatmates, the flimsy secrets you keep hidden in your devices.
I will not kiss that mouth so riddled with words of apology until proof
of freedom from the rotten pestilence has been known to be crushed,
or not at all within the breath of your salty mouth and carefree attitudes
towards the sex you never have that emanates purely from flippancy.
Carry no bags for me when trying to be kind, do not iron my clothes, pass
my toothbrush, gargle words of disinfection or amnesties.
You want to love me? Well keep two meters away and take your clothes off
so I can gaze upon your body safely while exploring my own fervent feelings.
I do love your dance of possible death, the grace of the zips and buttons
undone for me in these thrilling times. And afterwards, well after all this
cantering and touching imagination, I may reach out and you can rest your
fruit on my finger when you are completely clean of the disasters of viruses.