It's early in the morning. You of course are sleeping. You drifted right into it after our words last night. Alcohol will get you there. I was up all night.
There was a time in my life, before you appeared, when I thought it was my fate to be condemned to a life of men I didn't really love that didn't really understand what I was saying. I remember telling myself this. I remember resigning myself to never expecting more than making the best of a lonely situation. I formally accepted the cruel distance between people.
We had a time in the beginning, discovering each other. You had beautiful words, words all your own. When you said them to me, I thought you were giving them to me. Each insight, each figure of language, I took as my own, your special gift to me, your only confidant.
This morning I looked up the word good-bye. It said in the etymology that it comes from God be with you. So many things became clear when I read this.
I'm not ready to put this into words. I'd like to talk it out with someone first but I can't think of anyone who could possibly understand except for you. This of course means I'm alone again. I'm back in the center of all this indifference.
I hate being alone.
You're a bastard. There, that's a start. And I'm hurt. I want you to know that. It's bad enough that you're as late as you were last night, but you have these cruel and spiteful questions.
"I don't love you right now." Should I check again in five minutes? It's not a thing you feel intensely all the time. You just know it. You have faith in it. You make it sound like it's my fault you don't love me all the time. It's like a drug for you, that you need for inspiration. And when you don't feel high, you blame me.
Oh hell. Forget the reasons. We've been through it before. I've tried. Goodbye.

Corrina.