Last night I licked my nipples and wished upon the whipped cream moon for a rocketship planted in your backyard, my eleven o'clock astronaut, and a landing pad the exact right size centered smack dab flat on my mattress.
When I sleep, my nightmare paves the black land and your new girlfriend tracks my path, clamoring for surrender as if her panic was castanets or dead teeth tacked to the oaks' anorexic branches. I cannot match her eye contact, and she will not accept my passivity. I am mistaken again. I take it all back.