What a beautiful couple we make,
the subject of universal envy.
The pretending
and
the pretentious.
You.
So perfect.
Blessed with a turn-on switch
for the stars in your eyes.
And good timing.
Me.
Pathologically making amends
to anyone
with however bogus a claim
on my unresponsive heart.
You have a connection,
insider information,
an exclusive invitation.
You say
it has long since been written
for us in these stars of yours.
And I put my faith
in whatever pile of straw
promises to be my rescue raft.
My space shuttle
on its swan song of a mission
to my rent-controlled castle
in the sky.
What a sublimely perfect couple
we make
love suspended from the delicate threads
of public approval
and the ill-fitting glass slipper.
The consummate coupling
of a pretentious one
with one who’s pretending.