You are proud when you tell me you refused to say hello to your ex, the love of your life, the love of your life during the time our lives intertwined. I am pretty sure you say "refused," that you choose that word. You might tell me to go back in our chat messages, our texts, check and see that you said no such thing. Sex and strength, sex and strength you tell me are what the tattoo is about, one of them. I can't imagine either.

Another time, while we were together, you told me that you think about another ex of yours daily. I am thrown by this, understand the depths of my not understanding you, because she is a woman you speak of rarely at most—I had no idea. I think about how far you can be from her, not mentioning her, so intensely onward with your life, but you say this.

What I had—because we are taught to speak as having, as having had—was having ended it. But your final words count where mine don't, you draw the line and it's declared the more right of the lines drawn. What I have, is loss upon loss.

I learn to talk about having loved you, about the shame, about the beginnings even of the deep hurt you caused and would probably prefer I word as having existed between us. I think about how early and how often you worried that one day I would hate you, that you would be piled on top of a series of exes I despised. How I committed to loving you to death to prove you wrong, essentially. How I didn't think you should get to decide my feelings for you, my future feelings. Whether or not it was a product of this, I loved you with more than I had to give. I loved you beyond what made sense, beyond what was sexy or acceptable, without balance, but not without consideration for it.

My body left me when you did, left with you. Memories of it existed in the memories of you, made me able to recall. In the moments my body returned, it came with you. How boringly monogamous, I imagine you thinking, how extraordinately unlike how you function. Early on you'd tell me you hoped I found what you thought I was looking for, but I wasn't looking. If I had a dream of a future, I was never looking to slot someone into the role, tick them off on a checklist. You were not my future, but you were this urgent immediate; you happened now, and for the first time, I did too, the present as an unrecognizable state. I was never, despite all of my desire for you, planning my future with you, planning my child or possible future child's.

You were resigned to likely not have children, because your partner/girlfriend/unmatchable non-heirarchal love didn't want them. I wasn't looking for that with you, despite being in my future, despite not having time for unknowns in myself. Before you left for Norway, in my friend's house on Ashdale, you told me you wanted me to stay, that you wanted to try, that you wanted—not for me to wait—but for us to continue. An ongoing present, more of the now. At this point, your real love wanted to live together, you wanted to live with her. She wanted to come across the world with you; you wanted her there. You weren't even talking about how much time might lapse before we'd see each other again, how much time you'd have for me when we did. You told me, after I asked, that in two or more years, when you returned, that you only knew you'd be returning to her, that your return may be a move to Alberta, the Arctic, or somewhere else.

You, 1.5 years after the last time we've seen each other, tell me you like the poem I made public for you a year before, that you just came across it. I ask if this was the first time, or if you also read it nearer to the time it was published. You can't remember. You comment on how sometimes you don't remember the important things.

When you decide to move, to Norway, you tell me you shouldn't have $8 pho with my daughter and I, that you need to be saving money. I blame your girlfriend, I blame your friend Alison, I blame your parents, and of course you. We go for stupid soup. Everything is sad and will be from then on. Before you leave you show up at my place, belly wiped with peppermint oil (your girlfriend) that makes me dizzy, turns my stomach. We cry. I give you one of the earrings I wore on an early and important date with you. You, 1.5 years after the last time we see each other (this time, in fact) wear it on another date, with another girl, who has ever been mistaken for me. You mention the earring but not the woman, as though you are being romantic, nostalgic, as though it was meaning. You say your vest pocket and I'd forgotten about vests. This woman is more me than your important ex, though has her sensibilities, her nonchalance, but in this case patience. The day of the earring, the first day in this story, you hide behind my bedroom door when my child gets home. She follows your slushy January boot prints, asks who's there. You say you'll Skype, that you can't handle it, but you never say goodbye to her. (Three weeks after we break up, five months later, you decide this is a thing—one I've known all along. But that you also don't want goodbyes.) My child is newly three and you call her four. She goes from being a toddler into her second year of school. We kiss for the last time.

More than a year before, you texted me from a plane before it took off, off to see your partner/love. You would do this, again from a pirate ship before it departed, and so on. When you contact me from the airport, beyond where your girlfriend and parents can accompany you, it says "sent from my ipad." When I mention this, you say you used your dads. From Norway, your messages are still Sent from [an] iPad. I learn that Finmark is a place, though I don't believe it. Things will be different, but you're not dying, you're not leaving me, you're just going to do something, you tell me to calm down. I next hear from you two weeks later. You are angry when I mention this, and nothing is ever okay again, even for moments. I don't stop loving you for a long, long time.