I waited, breath bated, in anticipation and trepidation,
the tenterhooks rubbing my flesh a delightfully reddish hue.
Headen for a wed’n, I dreamed, my chops being licked
in contemplation of impending marital bliss,
the type that’s never ever after to be torn asunder
by man nor beast nor gloom of night.
Surprised by my suggestion of permanent nuptial entanglement,
she offered this: I do love you lots, she said. Like to the moon.
And back? I asked
So where are we eating tonight? she said, not skipping a beat,
as did my heart, which I feared might not just be skipping one,
but might have ended beating altogether in the way
I’d become accustomed to it doing while I was still alive.
Unfortunately I felt my pulse return, albeit to an elevated rate,
say the same as man who unknowingly sticks his head in a ravenous lion’s mouth.
On the moon, I guess, I say.
And that’s the last time I saw her, she disappearing like a lighting strike,
zooming on a single-seat space shuttle speeding solo back to earth alone real fast,
leaving me here all by myself, suffocating without oxygen,
or anything I might need to survive our lunar last supper.