You ruined me. I remember the moment in the alley out by school when I took your hands as you walked away and yanked you back and told you that being five minutes late never hurt anyone and finally touched my mouth to yours. You stayed over that night. I asked you to move to Texas with me and you said you would. I’m packing for San Diego and you’ve been back in Baltimore for weeks I’m told. I can’t forget the remarkable sweetness of you two and a quarter inches deep and me lapping up your honey like an overtired dog and you moaned “I need to marry whoever eats me like this.” We agreed that I would take your last name instead that we should never ruin the lovely Irish lilt with mine’s simple Americanism. When I rolled you over to finish you asked me to manually work it onto your stomach instead—I agreed out of love. You spoke to me once after that. I hope your cigarettes and friendly reassurances kept you more comfortable at night than they did me. I hope your talent implodes and you stay in Baltimore, struggling with writers block for the rest of your life because, despite—and I’m sure of this—despite so many of your friends endlessly fawning over your literary talents you deserve that. For admitting you might have given me something and running off, you deserve that. I still think about the sweetness of your honey and my appetite for your parts and the way you said “Yes” when I asked you to move to Texas with me. I loved you until three months ago. I hope no one will ever lick you like I did so that way your friends can see the disappointment on your face morning after evening for weeks on end just like mine did with me. I hope the writer’s block hits you and never leaves. I hope your name’s lovely Irish lilt gets co-opted by some brutalistic mid-continental one. I hope you sell out or give up and end up as a K-Mart shift manager. I hope your future is pale, entitled children and blue light specials and very little else.