And you said, You and I as a couple are as ironic as Mother Teresa with a photon gun. I said, “Oh, I know. You are so handsome, so witty and you really have your shit together.” I guess it wasn’t funny. A two year old letter read and reread countless times lies on the table. So little is said in so many lines. I can’t call you, can’t write. You’ll write me. She must not know. This was the final time. Now, I mean it. I lost your number, but called information. I promised myself I wouldn’t call. I didn’t leave a message, at least. I made you a card, a pop-up. When you open it, an angry fist leaps out, flipping you off. On the back I wrote you a letter, telling you exactly how I feel. But I scribbled it out, feeling it’s all better left unsaid. On the front there is an image of me sitting alone at the bar. And I guess I knew before I even came that you would stand me up yet again. I just knew. And so little hurts me anymore—just you now, really. I laugh at the rest, those who claim they love me. I don’t care about them, I never have. Yet the echo of your laughter still lingers in my mind your smile clouds the edges of my eyes. I think of us in the shower, your face, the hot water, touching you. I think of your expression as you climax. Lying on my bed, walking in the park, holding hands, pulling apart when someone walked by. and I now realize: I never thanked you for teaching me what love is not.