Remember, last fall, and early winter. The calls, the poems, the emails. Offering to walk your dog. Being let up the stairs, talking about our future, who you were dating then—your reluctance, but also what you expressed as your duty to yourself. I knew it was a decision you were making, but it felt to me like you wanted only to save face with your friends. The way you talked about him, what seemed to me unenthusiastically, or about how much you’d wanted me to fix things before. Making out, on the street, in your apartment. God, you looked so happy. Our date in December, coming home with you. That night, and the next morning, thinking that I would never have to let you go. How high the hits on my website were—sometimes eighty views a day. Perhaps five visitors. I knew it was you. The hope that I felt—and your reassurances, to just wait six months. Six months, as if that was a magic number—that’s what you told me your father advised, on the phone. As if something would return to us then, on the air. It terrified me, to wait that long. It was a threshold I did not want us to cross. My hope, and my helplessness, and my grief, and my anger. And the sense of possibility when you reached out. 

It doesn’t do me any good to think of that now. I am trying to pretend it didn’t happen—as you are, now. 

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