He doesn't have a name yet, or a face that can be brought to life. But he has already rooted a stronghold in the soil of your mind. Intertwined in my sheets you nourish the existence of this phantasm. I envy him, 'cause he will pick up sins right where I left them. You will pin his pictures over empty corkboard spaces. His body will warm the side of the bed that I now occupy. He doesn't have a name yet, or a cock as big as mine. But I'm sure his exaggerated image will keep you moist. It's only the thought that he exists that keeps him alive.