Dear Lover,
I don’t write about you anymore. I don’t sing your name to midnight with the accompaniment of my fingers strumming frantically between the keys of my thighs, Trill and Tremolo. I don’t see your shadow stalking me at the door, creeping behind the curtain, staring at me from up the stairs, or across the parking lot. You are not the beauty in all of the people I see on the crowded streets. She doesn’t have your rounded eyes. His striped sweater doesn’t match the blues of the one you wore to my birthday party last fall. He no longer walks like you. She laughs in a different rhythm. My heart doesn’t beat with excitement as I imagine your phantom touch on my scalp when I shower. In a sharp panic, I turn around to assure myself that you are not outside my window. I shiver.
Dear Lover, I don’t want to write about you anymore.
I guess I love you no longer.