He wooed me like you tow an asteroid
to fling into a planet you don't like.
He promised googly hyperdrives
to farflung planets, but his particle accelerator was always "down."
He boasted about smuggling
jazzonite into the Minotonkan
Convent, but he had no proof
of dancing and nun
saw him leave.
His excuses for why we never left
the solar system were always colourful: "I need to fly under the radar
lest the Hesteride Belt Mafia find us. You wouldn't want that, babe." Then he'd describe what he thought of
as torture, but I was starting to think might just be kink.
"I know, Saturn in the shadow
of three moons would be awesome,
but I hate crowds, and we can buy
the digital wall display for 20 geffes."
It was always more practical not to leave our apartment. His moods wrapped around him like a nebula shroud. It was a no-communication zone.
I wanted to go all comet on him, but he offered me Cheetos and a place on the couch and his warm arm and said, "Babe, we don't need all that running now that we got each other."
And I settled into the couch like that asteroid settles into a planet's surface, all cozy and devastating, wiping out all life around it.