He sat in the glow of a neon regret,
Mumbling tales of the one who just left.
“She ditched me,” he said, “for some tattooed brute—
I texted her poems, I kissed both her boots!”
But loyalty’s not love, and kindness can fade,
If it’s wrapped in routine that’s poorly displayed.
Maybe he was the best she could do—
At that time, in that place—but that doesn’t make it true.
The man was worn in, shaped by the groove,
Married with kids, with little to prove.
He loved her still, though the sparks had cooled—
They weren’t newlyweds, they were seasoned and tooled.
She longed for the magic they'd felt at the start,
Mistook daily love for a vanishing art.
But once you’re well-worn and the shine has flown,
There’s no rewinding what time has known.
She thought she was MILF—forgot what it meant,
Mistaking desire for lifelong intent.
No one weds a MILF, not stone-cold and wise,
Unless liquor’s fog clouds over their eyes.
Now enter the scroll queens, bold with a plan,
Broadcasting heartbreak from the palm of their hand.
They leapt with a smirk, sure the grass would be lush,
Fueled by TokTik and a midlife crush.
They were nearly expired, but still on the shelf,
Not yet past the date—but far from fresh stealth.
No longer “new car,” not vintage, just… used,
With a bit of a squeak and a slightly bruised fuse.
They lit lonely hearts like a curated flame,
Preached “follow me” under freedom’s name.
But they weren’t just running—they wanted a crowd,
To cheer for the leap, to echo out loud.
They couldn’t bear solitude’s bitter incline,
So they summoned companions to sit in their brine.
Not swimming, not soaring—just circling the drain,
Warmed by the shared, slow-simmering pain.
The watchers, inspired, now dream of escape,
Of ditching the “meh” for a tempting update.
But dreams don’t date, and filters fade fast,
And not every exit leads to a better last.
So spare me the tales of good guys and bad—
Of devils with abs and saints who were sad.
There are no white knights or villains in ties,
No moral reward when connection dies.
The Good Guy Myth? That is for the dogs—
It still doesn’t make that guy best in show.
And women who can smell that,
Lead those by the nose.
There are no good guys or bad guys—just guys,
And some wear regret like a well-worn disguise.
From TokTik confessions to neon-drenched lies,
This play keeps repeating—but few question why.
Final Positions:
The man sits in the strip club, dollars at ready,
Complaining that women don’t want the good guy,
While slipping the folded bill steady.
The woman sits on a barstool,
Glaring at couples alight,
Complaining the good ones are taken—
Forgetting she once had one at night.
Author’s Note: Yes, it's TokTik. No, that’s not a typo. But thank you for reading.
Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved
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