Last Eligible Donor

When I was six, I said I would marry you. You grimaced. We were bible camp buddies. I came across you again in a rest stop chicken joint. On my way to bigger and better things. In theory. Your eyes were cigarette butts in plastic ash-trays. When I kissed your cheek it didn’t burn my lips. The fire of Jesus Christ must have moved on. Like everyone else. We didn’t fall far enough, did we? Sweet upon detection. Repulsive upon discovery. And now that one disparaged lifetime has crawled into another and we sit, cinders of ourselves in a time stamped trailer. Minus half of the necessary wheels. Backs of our hands weathered as sun scorched rebar. And you with a heart diseased. And I wholly compatible. My keys come off of the tabletop and into my palm with an ease that cuts the corners of our eyes. Number fifty one. Two piece. Small fry. Small pop. “I’ll see you around.”