I killed the poetry in him. It was not on purpose. I had never known a man with such delicate spell-caster hands and ironic tone. His eyes were so pale, pupils enormous. He was a mystic. He loved and hated me simultaneously. I still have the poems he sent after I left, telling me that gods and children live in my eyes. For two months he wrote incessant. And the damned say goodnight. How I murdered and resurrected him every night. He called me lovely and hard. When I last checked in he’d stopped writing, as though he’d exhausted his passion on heartbreak. He’s studying martial arts now, in an attempt to discipline. He was furious when he realized I wasn’t coming back, that the city was eating me alive and in that death I found new words. He burned into my skin like a ritual. And the damned say goodnight. There are moments when I can’t move past the tragedy of it all. How I killed the poetry in him.