After This is the part where we become friends after the love has died; where kisses turn to texts which trail off because I am now someone he never misses, unlike the days when he couldn’t live without me. Perhaps I should be glad. Friendship is a deeper kind of love, or so I’m told. I miss what we had, long nights of skin pressing warm skin; becoming animals ‘til dawn. But every night must end. Nothing lasts forever, or even lasts for long. But are we still friends? That is a thin reed to cling to now it’s over. I won’t learn to love him as a friend until I snare another lover.
Caleb Perry Murdock is 73 years old and lives in Rhode Island. He spent most of his life as a word-processing operator for law firms. He has written poetry since his twenties, but he didn’t lose his chronic writer’s block until his late sixties. He is now writing up a storm to make up for lost time.