Your voice was perfect for waking up to. I liked talking with you in the car, the sound of surrounding traffic drowned out your voice.

If you took your eyes off the road I knew you were making an important point, I furrowed my brow and nodded, urging you to continue.

I'd think about how much happier I'd be if I was married to Thom Yorke or better yet what if I was pregnant with Nietzsche's baby. I'd sit and trace letters on my knee. I'd trace words on my knee.

I write his name over and over.

The person you're fucking and the person you're in love with usually aren't the same person. It's easy to tell, after you orgasm, whose name do you want to scream after Jesus?

The first time I knew I was in love with him he spilled his coffee on the sidewalk in front of me.

The first time I knew I didn't love him was when he fell asleep during a documentary about the Holocaust. The second time was when I saw how he peeled a mango.

And the reason I left was because I saw a Stephen King book on his nightstand, I'd rather have seen a black dildo.