Pollen and kisses and tears

Europe has volcanic ash.
Here we have the pollen.
Our world has turned to green.
Green powder coats my once red car.
Do the med schools teach
a cure for green lung?
I cough, and my voice
drops yet another octave.
It's husky, sexy perhaps,
though the sadist likes
a high, breathy sound.
There's not much breath
when he squeezes my throat
with his large, strong hand.
I gasp that my life is his.
And when I can, I speak
of the knife. He was here today,
an overlong lunch where my lips
and his cock made the meal.
I'm still drunk on his kisses,
a lazy cliche, but sometimes
the truth can be trite. Kisses,
a spanking I knew I had earned,
a punishment welcomed with tears of relief.
His lips,
his cock,
a drink from his mouth,
all the usual,
all the beautiful,
tender and intimate,
even the pain seemed
so tender and intimate.
I'm happy.
I'm floating.
And sometimes my joy
can bring nothing
but tears.
Taste them.
Save them.
They will sweeten your tea.