The last time we spoke he called me a jackass, and he wasn’t wrong. But he also didn’t know the reasons for the things I had said, or the price I would have paid for not saying them. He only knew that I had turned our past into crap by spreading my poems around. Search and replace the names in the odes. Edit the tense of each sonnet. Re-gifting my words as though I were re-gifting my love. Dying quietly as I did. It was a dark time. It still is. He is dead, but I’m still going along, muttering to myself and to no one else.