Lunar Landings: A Poem of Sorts

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I remember him blue balled and too tall, a tool in a belt full of Adderall, the day all the lacy underwire bras were on sale at the lingerie shop. I said let’s talk, but not anything real. Let’s talk stocks. Weather and pop culture. Just keep blabbering, baby, don’t stop. So we talked about fuck all and love and stuff we didn’t want. I didn’t want him and that was enough. I didn’t like confiding and he couldn’t listen. Shit if we weren’t just fishing for reasons to make a connection and separate it from the other ill-fated selections we carried as facebook friends and nothing more. Whoever said friendship lasts forever never clicked UNFRIEND.

 

We didn’t unfriend. We didn’t unlike. We didn’t ignite or fight or fuck or die. We continued existing even after the sale switched from lace to silk. It was based on an understanding that the lunar landing was more than a conspiracy. It was hope. And that meant something.

 

Should I have loved him? Should I have blocked his cock and instant chat? Arteries clogged by fat, the heartburn keeps coming back and who am I to argue against that?

 

Blue balled and too tall, that’s how I knew you. I was a whore in a lingerie store with laced bras and cigarettes. Wondering if it was over yet. Still wondering if it’s over yet.

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