At twenty, I loved how you always had to have the wind in your hair.
You and Diogenes, honest, blunt, tactless assholes
drinking wine on the balcony,
grabbing truth out of thin air with gesticulating hands.
I adored you and that's nothing new.
At forty-five you haven't changed,
You're still the Greek MacGyver,
but it only makes me want to vomit.
Our son is dead
I don't forgive you
and that's the stone fucking truth.