by Janine Rose

my first
he was my first manuscript 
his spell hot in my ear
we lay together 
stripped down
soaked in each other’s thoughts
his fingers tickled typed over my skin
searching for an opening
and when found 
pushed up
tension mounting 
we followed a song 
and when it was finished
we tried to find another,
as sleep licked at my feet
he rested beside me composing himself 
nudged me awake to tell me
there’s always an ending,
an ending to every story

And then,
he was gone
left me a letter, or three,
Bye
not, bye for now,
or bye, bye, baby 
or see you later love

off in search of a agent
a literary life for him
a dream of publication
of having his name 
on everyone’s lips
not just mine

I thought he was a thriller or a romance or erotica
not a fantasy
a fantasy, not even my fantasy

I heard he was in Paris
in Paris, smoking in bars
using cheap paraphrases 
dropping his commas 
dangling his modifiers
walking out without his semicolons 
telling tall tales about 
where he came from
who wrote him

I heard he took a lover
does she open
her pages for him?
Do his swollen sentences
penetrate her?
and after, 
do they sigh
and does she wish
that she had been 

unread

he told me there’s
always an ending
he was quite sure if it
but not for me
there’s not 
I’ll write another novel
he won’t be

my last