You told me it wouldn’t work. 
You were looking for 
that “connection” you said, 
and that we were 
”a little off sync.” 

You were looking for kissing
in the rain, declarations of love
from cardboard balconies, and lovemaking
with moans practiced in front of 
the bathroom mirror. 

You wanted me to read scripts, 
but I’ve never been very good 
in front of an audience. 
You were looking for a cookie dough girl
from a claymation, a girl 
whose words were well rehearsed because, 
after all, practice makes
perfect. 

Fucking perfect. 

But did you know,
my space boy, that
two off sync pendulums will eventually
swing the same way? 
That when you are old and grey 
and your sighing limbs are weak, 
you will wish you had someone 
who would truly listen instead of just waiting
for their next line? Or that the “connection” 
will only last for the 120 minutes
(and if you’re lucky, through the credits)?

They say sex sells,
but the worst part is, sometimes
we don’t even know
we’re buying it.