They bravely faced torrential smiles
of all the people faking it for posterity.
They held jobs and washed dishes
and watched old movies for relief.
He wrote about another her
over and over, in different shades
of grief and romantic cynicism;
she wrote about him
couched in terms so he would never know
it was about him, though he thought
everything was about him in some way-
which is was, for the wrong her.
They bravely set aside cravings
for junk food as they delicately nibbled
on craft cheese and artsy beer, dreaming
of greasy ambrosia and carnal knowledge
dripping from their chins.
He stayed in his teenage room (mentally);
she kept spinning in a made-up meadow.