I want to remember us like this: in love, on a beach, our arms connecting to the same body. Every day the past grows more and more hazy. It’s harder to remember you, all of you—just bits and pieces stay behind. But I’ll always have the kiss. The funny thing about loving you is that it can only end in losing you: either you leave, or I leave, or one of us dies. I have been left, discarded, tossed away by so many lovers that there’s clearly a foregone conclusion to reach when I try to love another man. In dating we are destined to be disappointed. The true thing happens only once. Why does this need persist? To attempt again the tired first-conversations and first kisses unlike yours. That inevitable result: loss. I read somewhere yesterday: insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.