Last Night

You walked right past me in the bar last night. You even said, "Excuse me." Maybe you were with people; it doesn't matter, you used to be with me. And last night, you were with me. I was twenty feet away. Then ten feet. Then two feet. Then ten feet. Then twenty feet away.

Did I leave that small of an impression on your life? If you didn't see me, would you ever recognize me? How much of me do you remember? How can I count myself as a worthy human being if I'm so forgettable? How did I fail at creating memories for you?

Other people have said I'm worthy. They said it when I was selected to go to the Moon. And no, the Moon isn't that new night club that opened up. It's the Moon. As is, "I can see the Moon in your eyes." The motherfuckin' Moon, out in space.

What do you know about me that those other people don't know? Has your life been flooded with so many incredible memories that the bar was just raised above my head? Has my life been less or did I hold you higher in my own memories?

True, I didn't say, "hi" last night. But I saw you and you saw me. You just didn't know it was me. And you didn't know that it was my last night here. Not here as in the bar, but here as in Earth. If you knew, then I would've been worth remembering. Maybe.

My name is going to survive longer than I will. Maybe some 11th grader is going to have to memorize my name along with a dozen other astronauts. Maybe not. I need people to remember me, I just thought they would. I feel incredibly lonely now knowing that I am the only person in the world who remembers us. Together or not, we were and always would be a part of a two-member club.

If I die your last words to me will be "excuse me." Which is only slightly more searing than your previous last words, "I'm glad we can still be friends."

I'm going into outer space now.

Peace.