Dear Connie,

I know the counselor said we shouldn’t contact each other during our “cooling off” period, but I couldn’t wait anymore.

The day you left, I swore I’d never talk to you again but that was just the wounded little boy in me talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first on to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride’s cost me a lot of things. I’m tired of pretending I don’t miss you. I don’t care about looking bad anymore. I don’t care who makes the first move as long as one of us does. Maybe it’s time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt.

This is what my heart says “There’s no one like you, Connie. I look for you in the eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they’re not you. They’re not even close.”

Two weeks ago I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home with me. I don’t say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation. She was young, maybe 19 with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Tits like you wouldn’t believe and ass that just wouldn’t quit. Every man’s dream, right?

As I sat on the couch being blown by this stunner, I thought, look at the stuff we’ve made important in our lives. It’s all so superficial. What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes, but you see what I’m getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart than my modestly attractive Connie? I doubt it. And I’d never really thought of that before. I don’t know, maybe I’m just growing up a little.

Later, after I’d tossed her about a half a pint of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, “Why do I feel so drained and empty?” It wasn’t just her flawless technique or her slutty shameless hunger; but something also, some nagging feeling of loss. Why did it feel incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn’t feel the same because you weren’t there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you. Jesus, Connie, I’m just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you.

Do you remember Carol that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn lounge last year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagna. She said she figured I wasn’t eating right without a woman around. I didn’t know what she meant till later; but that’s not the real story. Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know we’re banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart’s a total monster in the sack. She’s giving me everything, you know, like a real woman does when she’s not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids can hear us. And all of the sudden, she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother’s old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can watch ourselves and it’s totally hot, but it makes e sad too because I can’t help thinking “Why didn’t Connie ever put the mirror on the floor? We’ve had this old vanity for what, 14 years and we never used it as a sex toy.”

Saturday your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Vickie’s just a kid and all, but she’s got a pretty good head on her shoulders and she’s been a real friend to me during this painful time. She’s given me lots of good advice about you and about women in general. She’s pulling for us to get back together. Connie, she really is.

So we’re doing Jell-O shots in a hot bath and taking about happier times. Here’s this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of how much she looks like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry. And then it turns out Vicky’s really into the whole anal thing, and that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fueled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how even then, when I’m thrusting inside your baby sister’s cinnamon ring all I can do is think of you? It’s true Connie. In your heart you must know it. Don’t you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances away and start fresh? I think we can. If you feel the same please please please, let me know.

Otherwise, can you let me know where the fucking remote is?

Love Dan

It was a numbing night on friday late,
and everything was quiet,
Brant and Jay were there, the tone was violent,
and oblivious of our fate.

We had a fifth of justice, a shit-dark brown,
Bah-Cah-Rahdee, the God of war,
War and hangovers, that whore,
Brant was waving it like a scepter for his crown.

Bent like a carnival barker, he barked my name,
Adam! Adam! Come here!
What? I answered, sleep near.
Brant was like his nature, he wanted to play a game.

Jay laughed and clapped his hands,
this was entertainment,
even though he’d paid this kind of rent.
This was entertainment, too funny for demands,

The bottle whistled through the smoky air,
Come here and drink this you pussy!
What are you scared? Some kind of wussy?
Bah-Cah-Rahdee and I, apparently, had to share.

I waved him away, Brant didn’t like that.
I rolled away, despite the insult,
He had goaded me before, fucking dolt.
No was not the answer, and that was fucking that.

Chickenshit faggot, cocksucking bastard,
every name he could think about,
which wasn’t much, but left room to shout,
Get over here and drink this, you retard.

Like a second version of me, I leapt!
The momentum took me halfway,
my body slid the rest, to his dismany.
I arrived defiant, on my knees, respect kept.

I grabbed the bottle like a dangerous gun,
and I was prone to do violence,
I placed the barrel of the bottle to common sense,
and settled in for three quarters of dangerous fun.

Like the blazing light of truth, but stupid,
I conquered bottle, doubt and sense,
Chugged the god of war, hence,
My morning after, was left with no defense, and so stupid.

Bah-Cah-Rahdee, God of war,
War and Hangovers, he won that night,
and as the very last of the last light,
dimmed out, I remember thinking, hello floor.

Hello again, it’s morning,
and though I doubt that vomits mine,
I’m surprised its only nine.
Yup it’s mine, and i’m mourning.

Wow it’s only ten, and I can’t feel my feet,
that’s not normal, Jay tells me from the desk,
I feel a weight of myself upon my chest,
face down again, my numb limbs feel heat.

That was the sun, going down,
by myself now, I think that’s odd,
But you find, you can’t defy a god,
I drink again, Bah-Cah-Rahdee, keep your crown.