My father used to say, “Don’t raise your voice. Improve your argument.
I don’t need to write some long paragraph comparing your eyes to stars, or string together sentences about how your touch makes me shiver. Our love was fucking poetic before I messily scribbled down one word about you. I loved you with every bone in my entire fucking body and if that isn’t poetry, I don’t know what is.
I can remember the name we picked for our future daughter.
Autumn. Autumn. Autumn.
You’re no longer a part of my life but I want you to know that my first daughter will be named Autumn. I hope twenty years from now, you see me on the street hand in hand with a beautiful toddler with a smile so bright it makes you forget it’s winter in California. I hope she smiles at you like she knows we picked her name together. I hope you ask me for her name and I will tell you, Autumn and I know you’re going to remember. You might actually die.