Our love Was an Infomercial

He did a good job of consuming my devotion with every motion of his hips against mine.
With every gulp of passion he persuaded that I spill forth.

He demanded I keep faith in him, in us.
We discussed our future, as though it were a TV show we would turn on at "6."

But six was a long way off,
In some other timezone,
Showing some porno flick.
In the fucking twilight zone for all I knew.

The other men, on other channels, my friends,
I disguarded, as asked!

Protecting the skin on this delicate fruit of our love from being bruised, or dropped, or picked over for that one sour grape still clingling to the vine of lovers from my past.

They were gone, consumed like wine,
And I swore, to my core, he was the only one.

My love was like fresh juice,
My devotion was squeezed and ran sticky down his fingers, but it was never enough to please or quench his thirst.

On Reality TV, his love, it was, in truth an innocuous infomercial:

'Let me show you my wares, let me introduce you to the "Shred o Matic." Vvvrrrmmm!!!! My battery powered compost of fear, that will chop you, and dice you, and entice you, that will pull your pulp aside, and divide you from your sense of self and identity and then do please - spurt what's left into my little cup, so I can consume you, then throw you up!'

And I felt regret choke me, like a pit from a pruney fruit, dried up, disguarded.
- and in the garden of my love - I let him rot.

As for this - the 19.99 money order - that's at least one thing he never got.