She would write it that way. She would get off on my current situation, the grand romantic fucking gesture of it all, as I power through, at long last ready to say vows and eat your oatmeal and forgive your flaws, let you steal all my little stories, ready in a way I wasn’t when I had you, because of the most irritating and trite of all human truths. We don’t know what we have until we realize it might be dead in Seekonk. It’s
