It must be nice to not be dating a critic,
thinks the lonely cynic, slowly chewing
on a sub par taco.
He won’t always be right, he can’t be, he
isn’t there anymore; she’s without him.
It must be nice…the lack of dependence,
the independence she feels,
he thinks. But
it’s bad for him, hugging pillows, sobbing
on warm spring nights, (moon and city lights
play nightlight whether he wants them to or not)
getting all the tears and hiccups out in the privacy
It must be nice, he thinks, to not think about me.