I remember when the photos treated Sam kind,
and yet on the late nights (coffee, gin, cigarettes, the like) --
instead of relaying stories of interstate thighs,
instead of talking in fistfuls and mouthloads --
he spoke of internet *******.

Me, Greg, and Greg's cousin who was named after
an Eastwood western would sink the sofa.

Sam would go through the bottles, and he spoke of
internet ******* with complete delicateness.

"Their eyes always get me. The way they stare into the camera,
and every once in awhile, the veil comes down. You see they
don't want to be there. You see an eager, teenage **** reflected
in their black pupils. You see her quivering lips.
You see the ritual. It's heart-breaking."

Sam would rub his forehead -- carved by time.
Greg would ask how the real ladies were treating him.
Sam never answered.

Time made deeper creases in Sam each day,
behind a closed door,
in the secret hours,
all to the glow of a laptop screen.

He had given his love to the distance
in the **** actresses' eyes.