Ten.

Sentence I am waiting to hear (1):

"I will make it all up to you."

Eight.

Don't you understand? Even one sentence from you brings me back home again.

Seven.

I never know how to begin anything
that I write about you.

Things that I learned tonight:
Someone else saw you throwing pebbles
at my window that night.
They said,
He doesn't seem like the type
that you would have in your circle.

I have accidentally bought
the same shampoo from last winter,
when you stayed with me for days.
I didn't know this until I was
squeezing some into my palm
and it smelled like our mornings.

You would always complain
when I would wake up
and get out of bed first.
More specifically, you said,
You are never here.

And somewhere along the way
I began collecting poems
on oranges and bicycles.

And I'm sorry that in the beginning,
I didn't know you well enough
to translate anything correctly.

I would have taken you in better.

One through five (moved here, deleted there).

One.

I want to tell our story. I want a place to send the letters and sentences that I’m not allowed to say. I want you to stop being a monster. I want all of this to get better.


Two.
-


Three.

I love you because everything about you resonates home.


Four.
-


Five.

I read that this is grieving. And that in grieving you should talk about the memories that swirl around your head in order to remove them from your system.

Things. Like how my hair seems to have gotten much longer since the last time we slept together. How you always pulled the elastic out of it so you could run your hands through. And grabbed a hard fistful when you came. Is that too much? Should I not say that here? Okay, more cleanly, I still collect songs for you. Can’t listen to other ones because of you. That is stupid. Everyone always parallels relationships and ends of relationships to songs. So now I’m trite. Whatever. There are a thousand things to worry about, attempting to be atypical is not on my list.

I’m mad at you. For not finding a reason to invite me over. For not asking to see all of my work before I mailed it away. Now you won’t ever see it. I don’t care if you would have liked it, I didn’t want praise. I wanted to share it with you. Simple.

I miss sleeping next to you. I’m sorry that I said that I would never want to live with you. I didn’t mean it. In fact, I meant the opposite but I was afraid that it would scare you. I probably would have been right, but either way I wasn’t going to win.

Zero.

I don't know how to write fiction anymore. I guess sometimes I can manage dots of it, make up a city, or insert a bulletwound.

Say he comes to see you somewhere. An opening night at an art gallery, some quiet music set up in a bar, or in the middle of a park on a Sunday afternoon. It doesn't matter where, all of these are places that have happened before. You think he looks like he's letting himself go, but you don't say this. Instead, "Your hair is getting long," or "Hey, nice jacket."

He has been creating things without you. Nothing terribly large or important, but something about this digs another small hole in you. You were the mirror, the chalkboard, and now these inventions are being made without consultation.

Some days it doesn't matter and this is not a lie. You are tired and he is not there and you have a list of facts but most of them aren't enjoyable so you never take it out of your desk unless you have something new to add.

There are many parts to this. Too much history and too many things that never had a chance to happen. It will be a slow removal.

Hello.