The first boyfriend I lived with
had a CD single
of “Love Will Tear Us Apart Again.”
For two years, he and I had a pattern.
He wrote at his computer, a bag of grapes nearby.
I came home and made our dinner salads,
and, later, wrote through the night.
We never talked about marriage.
We talked about names we would give to children
we never had.
The other day,
I saw a picture he posted of his son,
named for Dashiell Hammett.
My new boyfriend and I agreed on no kids.
He’s a Journey fan.
I love him despite this.