Year one. I built up enough courage to talk to you.

You said you liked me.

I said I loved you.

You said ok.

Year three. I waited for you. I waited for you to kiss me, call me, think of me.

You watched tv.

You played basketball.

I said I love you.

You said that’s nice.

Year six. I moved away I moved so far away and I only thought of you on holidays.

Or when a song reminded me of you on the radio.

Or when my new boyfriend made me cry.

I emailed you that I loved you.

You said I should move on.

Year ten. I got married. My husband was a stupid punk. He was jealous of you.

We broke up.

You came to town and wined and dined me.

You fucked my brains out.

I said I love you.

You said how sweet.

Year thirteen. You get married as soon as I get divorced.


Year sixteen. You get divorced. You call me and say my son looks like he should be your son.

I say I know he does.

I say, it’s because I love you.

You say don’t sue me for child support.

Year eighteen. I’m single and so are you.

I call you or text you every day just to see how you are doing.

You tell me you love me.

I live two thousand miles away now.

And our son is raised so of course you do.

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