Capitalist Intimacy.

It’s that time where we kiss and depart.

Where last night dwindles into a distant echo -

Of crumpling beer cans and drooling vodka shots.

As the morning after swallows whole the

Night before.

Your face is sweet enough,

I suppose.

It could be worse.

Photographs.

Never quite match the swipe.

I have forgotten,

Or never knew

Your name.

I politely pretend.

Call you,

'doll' instead,

It seems fitting

Enough.

Your moniker is hardly important.

You are, after all,

Just a face.

A fuck,

To forget.

You’ll Whatsapp me...

I nod. Shrug without commitment.

You may, but

I have given too much of myself.

Already.

Besides, I haven’t given you my number,

Or my,

Real name.

We both know

This

Game.