*He lied. [When he left and said he didn’t love

you anymore, that he needed to find some space to grow as a person, above all, as an artist, a writer of some kind, living his thirty-two more years, thinking, every single day (every one), about your face, your touch, and the foul, stinking unredeemably stupid thing he’d done, dying alone, aware that he’d become a writer of no consequence, who’d been a hack, and even worse, who’d never come within a country mile of love again, whose life was less than a silly anecdote: an empty cipher and a two-word note.]