She interrupted me while reading,
"Go **** yourself,"
she said
"You are
nothing, and deserve
nothing, and I hope you die alone with
nothing.
Because you are *****,"
she said,
"***** and terrible
and full of shame.
I cannot look at you
any longer without disgust."

"Ok"
I replied,
dismissing her concern.
"This Hemingway is amazing
and I'd like to return to it."

She took none too
kindly to that,
ripped the novel
from my fingers.
"You are *****,"
she said,
"***** and terrible.
I cannot look at you
without such an anger
at myself for believing
you were something
more than nothing to me,
but now I have realized
and now you are nothing."

I didn't respond,
couldn't.
Such a beautiful anger
deserves no response
that I could give.
So she stormed off
all angry and beautiful
toward some other
man to fall in and out
of debt and love and
everything else with
as she had always done
and would always do.
It took all I had
not to stare in awe
as her silhouette stole
quickly out the door
into the dark,
novel in hand,
to leave me alone
with nothing,
just as I deserve.