I stopped writing poetry when we were together, because all my words became devoted text messages and phone calls. Of course, you were never a man who was good with words, and I grew tired of one sided conversational poems. And you grew tired of my expectations for you to reciprocate. So I guess the pain and exhaustion was mutual. It’s a year and a half later, and I’m writing for the first time in a long time. Maybe this is all over. Maybe the struggle no longer exists, and we both are free. You’re free to keep your words to yourself, and I’m free to set my words on fire. I’m sorry. I guess I’ve always been a solo writer.