Hate begets hate and you beget me and 
how many times in our nine months of knowing 
have I answered a question with 
the words because I know you?

I know you, not anymore because we 
haven’t talked in weeks except 
the occasional desperately cheery text 
message that can be described as nothing more than 
coordination

Can you imagine? Coordinating 
with someone you’ve loved so much on 
a rooftop that the idea of an electric death didn’t 
even scare you.

I think I will run into you one 
day at an Alabama gas station five hundred 
miles from anywhere either of us should be and 
we will look at each other and say 
simultaneously, 
holy shit.