Radio silence would be nice for a while.

Thank you for all the ridiculous words you ever uttered late into the night, for the kisses that you and I used for pleasure but I also tacked on some feelings (like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey). Thank you for showing me that feelings were a mistake, that I was the deeply-misled nineteen-going-on-twenty whom I barely know anymore. Thank you for your gentle touches, the strokes on my bare back and up my inner thigh and the nipple licks and the time you made me touch myself in front of you in the back seat of my own car, the time we went to Ikea and then you let me cry in front of you, the depressed piece of shit that I was, and didn't touch me at all,

and for the time we watched some movie on your couch and then found ourselves sin your bed and then in my car and I discovered that you really weren't lying when you said you were bad at sex – you couldn't keep it up, could you? Not that, not your ability to mesh the rest of the (arguably sane) people in existence, not your smile directed toward me.

Now it's directed at some girl, some girl I know only by a photo. I don't even know why I even bother checking up on you anymore – nostalgia, self-reflection, masochism – but all it takes is a click from my finger – a tap that once was on your back, light and audacious, a challenge you already knew you'd won – and your face appears, unwelcome but there because I put it there.

I wonder what she sees in you. Must be good, maybe you started taking Viagara.

Thank you for your indirect contribution to my happiness: I hate that you're part of the reason that I'm stable now, that I have him now, that he and I will reproduce in the coming years in all the (thank-God?) happiness that we have found. Maybe the antithesis of that philosophy is in one of your Ayn Rand novels, something deep and one step closer to the key of the universe that I frankly don't give a shit about anymore. Take your profundity and your flaccid penis back with you the girl in the photo and to Arkansas, where I honestly hope you find Enough someday.

I take a small amount of pleasure in knowing that Faust ends up in Hell – I can humour the concept of a painful afterlife long enough to let him fall in and seal the doors.

Duct tape should hold it, I think.