How did I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I loved thee as I had loved none before and have loved none since.
Not that that matters to you,
You bastard.
Not that I ever mattered to you,
Notwithstanding all you said, and whispered,
All you now claim you can't remember,
Explaining (as if it were an explanation) that you drink too much.
I loved thee with a love that, despite uncountable hours with my therapist,
Just won't disappear.
Not completely.
Because what I told you that long-ago night-into-morning
Still holds true.
A piece of my heart will always love you.
More's the damned pity.
Erika Dreifus lives and writes in New York City. A contributing editor for The Chattahoochee Review and for The Writer magazine, she is also editor/publisher of The Practicing Writer, a free monthly newsletter for poets, fictionists, and writers of creative nonfiction. Visit her Web site at http://www.practicing-writer.com and her Practicing Writing blog at http://practicing-writing.blogspot.com.