Once, I ended something and meant it. It was final like a bin day crusher. That shit’s destroyed whether you pull it out the truck or not.
I said goodbye three times – learnt rules from the internet, that post-three’s harassment, a legitimate police reason.
But YOU put me on the bus, kissed my forehead creases, not top lip, tongue. Said you’d call. Didn’t.
Which is why, five years, no break-up book pepping the right response, like, “You’re a fox. And better than that.”
No guide, mutual friend, cheat sheet, or memory like a Wikipedia entry logging every inch of the happen. Nothing to remind why not.