When you told me you couldn’t think about us, I thought is was because you were focusing entirely upon your career and so I chose to accept the agony and support you… it wasn’t until five months later, when I told you I couldn’t be friends with you, that you attempted to lay the blame at my feet. 

You were about to get into a “serious relationship”. How could I be so selfish to not ask? How could I be so cruel, you made love TO me!

Ah, please forgive me! When you couldn’t find the time to answer my, “how are you doing”s for three months, you told me to not text you at night, and you made ZERO effort to reach out to me, it never even crossed my mind to extend the courtesy to you to ask about ANOTHER GODDMAN WOMAN. 

I’m not even mad with her, YOU LIED TO HER TOO. 

You started seeing her mere weeks before you told me you loved me, while you were INSIDE OF ME, and you were FUCKING HER WHEN *we* *made* *love*. 

Well… I gave you your just desserts. The clothes you lent to me? The ones at my house? I slept in them for a week solid. Fucked myself in them to. Wrote you a six page letter giving you all the answers you’d ever need, too generous on my part, and sprayed them in my favorite perfume. Put all of that in a mail box, let it marinate for a few days, and mailed it off without a return address. 

I f e l t you when you received it, your anger and frustration and rage and pain and

longing.  

I felt you get hard, I felt you cry as you fucked yourself, and I felt you go right back to her. 

When you came to me, one year later, and followed me around like a lost puppy in a scene that was such a dream, I ignored you. Entirely. 

When you sought me out again, in the same way, and saw in my eyes that the love I hade for you was real and true because I still have it (but it’s different now), and I saw your realization and you hid because you knew {in}st{an}t that you could never love any other woman the way you loved me and you KNEW it was too late. 

I hope you find this, through some happenstance of life. This and the poem I wrote to you, three years ago nearly to the day. I hope you read it and your heart breaks open again, and maybe this time you’ll set it in straight. I hope you tell the other woman, the one you married after:

You: I’ll call you when I’m single
Me: Don’t bother. We’re not friends. I’ll fuck out of your life and you. will. stay. the. fuck. out. of. mine. (And this happened one year before you sought me out. You were engaged to this woman when you sought me out.)

never finds out because I sincerely hope you’ve grown into a better, kinder, more honest man. Your self-loathing aside, you are remarkably beautiful. 

What’s funny is that even if she’s sees this, I don’t think she’d ever know your name. I know she doesn’t know mine. How will she not know? Because she would have had to spend hours tracing your naked skin, loving every inch, paying the utmost of detail to see the tiny tattoo hidden on your arm, a smudge inside of a bigger picture. When I complimented you for how clever it was, how simple and beautiful, your eyes widened and you whispered in a holy-voice: you’re only the fifth person to know about that, you took me on the spot, holding me reverently and so lovingly. 

You would know, though. 

Because you can’t love her the way you love me. 

But I moved on. 

Thank you for being my first… the first person I ever truly made love with, where sex wasn’t just rutting or fucking or exploration. My world opened to a new dimension when we became one being, spending hours moving as slowly as possible together and sharing secrets through our open eyes. You shattered my fucking heart, but I know better now. 

The man I am making motions on now… he is getting a different me. A better me. A wiser and more self-loving me. He will have a high standard to meet, but I know he can and know he wants to so I know he will… and I will give myself to him in a more complete way than I could have ever given to you. 

You were my first, but he will be my last. My mate and my husband. My only. 

Thank you, God Bless, don’t ever seek me out again. 

Graceful Goodbye