in the title field, there was nothing.

In the title field, there was nothing.

Just a simple short note, saying how 

you had met someone else and it was

better that we didn't see each other

again.  Maybe it was too short, or maybe

I really didn't believe you, but I hit "Reply"

anyway.  I left the subject line blank, 

because I always thought "Untitled"

made paintings more artistic, 

just like no capital letters 

make poems more meaningful.  

I wanted to write to you

that I had slaved and suffered 

over our relationship, that no burden

was too heavy to bear, 

no river too wide to cross.

That just that afternoon,

I had bought you flowers

and when I saw you again,

I would give them to you,

along with a poem I had written

about our first night of lovemaking.

Things like,

"...the passion of our sweat-tears

mingling our bodies

like twin constellations

in a Milky Way heaven,"

or, "these two eyes, so green

and beautiful, like summer

staring through me."

Just things like that.

I really wanted to write that,

to fight for you, to weep over you,

to gnash my teeth and wail

like an old Greek chorus 

in a tragic play.

But I couldn't.  I wrote,

"You do what you have to.  

I had a nice time while it lasted.

Thanks, really thank you,

for everything, and I hope

we can be friends someday."

The pure impotence of begrudging myself

to you is so tragic.  So latently romantic,

but ever so tragic.  Don't believe a word

I tell you from now on.  I am a jilted lover

walking a tightrope to the next failure.