It’s the high point, focal, in-focus magnifying-glass-put-up-to-the-sun and into your eye… high. It’s the beautiful orchestral (climax) that they wait for. And it comes and goes as quickly as the subject was brought up. You talk about it like it’s a tea-time tradition; erotic procedures and crumpets and chamomile tea.

You brush off the sex with that dollar-store comb that I went to go and buy with you, that one day at my house when you said that you’d need it. I drove you there and you bought it; it’s pink and flashy; I remember. It was beautiful in a cheap (kinky) sort of a way.

Sort of like you.

I guess that’s why I don’t miss you.

It’s alright;

I’m sure that someone out there does.

Or that you wish that they did. But the heartbreak has happened to you oh-so-many times; that you can taste when it’s on the horizon. I guess that’s why you won’t ever, what’s that word? Oh, right, commit.

So brush off the sex

And move on (out of me)

And my life,

Please.

For the last time!