He Doesn't Poke Her Any More
by Carl Santoro
It was over.
The Facebook love,
like butter,
melting into hot
toast…
fading,
like a kind
of death.
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A great moment of the now.
The toast is good.
Hate that. Well made.
That's what Facebook is, all right. Playpen for the brain dead. *
Been there. Done that.*