The Lamentations of GanymedeDarling Boy,
The hour is late. Earlier this evening, after you had sailed home from the Drones Club on clouds on light inebriation and even lighter whimsy, the walls of this flat shook gently under the pulse of a merry piano and your own silvery voice. Beholding you rimed in Winter moonlight, your lissom fingers dashing about the ringing, recoicing keys, I felt you were not so much a Christian gentleman as a supernatural force, some Ariel sent to be my constant provoker.
I digress. I know you are all too human, which is more than can be said for the armies of ghastly women who look upon you as some clay golem that can be fashioned to suit their own baleful designs. It is my chief purpose to keep this seige forever at bay. I would not exchange your blithering colloquialisms, foolhardy impulses or endearing expressions of feeling for any treasure in creation. Even the promise of my desperate love being returned.
The more transcendental part of me is wholly untroubled by the fuschia crava