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.

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