Anna,
now I am retreating
I could take comfort in the margins of your regard, even

Now you only ever talk of children
I could trade you
keep me from slipping into a coma
and I will be your donor

Anna,
sometimes I wish we were at Sussex Beach
in the Italian hotel
in the African heat
and that, even if no love happened to come,
we could just fuck and fuck
and that would be enough

I'm always listening to the National
because it takes me back to Toronto
and driving to Niagara in the sun
your hand on my thigh
long before it got all fucked up

Anna,
I don't know if I've ever felt this bad before
it's not... it's not sadness, you know?

Of course you know.

I feel emptied and expended,
all my juices, all my good bits,
my youth and my sparkle,
my brains and my passion,
my friends and my lovers,
my confidence and my ambition,
just gone.

I feel trapped in the flat.
I feel trapped in the street.
I was picked up in a bar by two girls
and taken back to a bedroom to fuck
and it all went wrong, Anna,
I couldn't get it up.

I keep thinking,
this is it.
I don't know how to get things back.
I don't know how to move forward.
I have no friends,
and I'm too far gone to see why.

Anna,
there's just one word to explain,
the only word we both understood,
the word you loved.

Fuck.