Love Is The Last Thing In Space Poem by John W. McEwers

I'm an astral forget-me-naut.
a cosmic she-loves-me-naut.
and a karmic slip-naut is tied around my neck
like a Hello, My Name Is tombstone.

I left her stratosphere in shambles
wisps of cloudy regret and hangover
drifting across a muddy mind,
she didn't realize how complicated
was I

But like a rocket sci-
she figured me out,
she remembered her cryentific method
and after enough tears, she noticed a pattern,
my tears of course,
always mine,
because soulless space vapors like her can't cry,
and every time she stepped out
every time another man boldly went where
46 and counting-
47 and counting-
48 and counting-
have gone before,
I died.

I died so many times
I'm now just some space dust,
space debris
space junk
spiraling in orbit
around the gravitational singularity
of her memory.

Maybe I'll hit a wormhole
and worm my way
back in time
to when I was asking this heartless anomaly
to, hey why not, marry me,
so I can tell my younger self
to just forget it
pack a bag
prep the launch pad
and blast off to the moon.
Apollo 'who gives a toss'
ready to land
on whatever planetary
backwater gives me
peace.