She left me last year.
Our togetherness was short-lived.
Three months and a week.

That time was enough
for us to know we did not work
enough to make it.

It was in New York
where we met for the last time,
though we never talked.

She texted me once
about how she wanted me
to leave her alone.

We were long-distance,
so to me we were alone,
both of us, apart.

She messaged a line
from an old song we both knew,
give or take a word.

She said, "Distance has
no way of making love seem
understandable."

But was she honest?
Did the distance tear at us
and reveal our selves?

Isolated selves
that hunger for more contact
when the well has dried?

In my ignorance,
I took her plea for parting
as pure selfishness.

For months I blamed her.
Never had I felt so crossed
by someone before.

I wanted to die
for someone who loved me not,
who cared for me not.

"And to think," said I,
"she was not even my type!"
Still, I hated her.

Deeply unhappy,
I took to walking the streets
in the dead of night.

Then, on certain nights,
I would sit under bridges
like a troll, waiting.

Waiting for what now?
Nothing, except maybe sleep,
for sleep without dreams.

But to my surprise,
I had a guest one cold night,
a greasy fellow.

He looked like a beast,
with his hair almost like fur,
and a big stuffed nose.

His hands were like paws,
and his teeth were sharp like knives.
He seemed not human.

Yet in my dazed state,
I did not mind his looks much.
I simply snickered.

I said, "My dear friend,
you could use a good long bath
even more than me."

He said, "I've seen her.
She's better off without you."
His dog teeth glistened.

"Who is she?" said I.
"It sounds like you know me, friend."
I was displeased.

The creature looked sad,
as opposed to sadistic,
and sat beside me.

He grimaced and said,
"The one you love is happy,
since she's free of you."

My heart tightened up,
on the verge of exploding,
or so how I felt.

"How dare you," said I.
"Look how unhappy I am!
How's this for the best?"

"It's not about you."
He said, "It hurts, but your heart,
it will get better."

He said, "If you sulk,
and cannot move on from her,
you will become me."

He said, "I know you
because I was a human
with a love like you."

"But," I muttered low,
"she broke up with me through text,
through a text message!"

"Even so," he said,
"now it's your job to move on,
to get over that slight."

He appeared patient.
"It takes time, but soon enough,
or else you'll be lost."

I said, "But without her,
who will I be right for, then?
Who can accept me?"

"Someone," he replied.
"There's always someone for you,
though you don't know them."

He continued with,
"You'll find someone in the night,
or they will find you."

It occurred to me
that lovers are discovered,
and not conjured up.

I had conjured her,
this image of my lover
as if she were built.

But she was not made.
She was not designed for me.
She had her reasons.

If I was to live,
to survive as a man,
I had to forgive.

My mind cleared enough.
We talked that night, he and I,
the beast and the man.

My humanity, 
thanks to what the beast had said,
was for me to keep.