To Sir Whom I Loved,
I found some of your personal effects in my closet yesterday. I made a crude effigy of you out of them and burned it in my compound with angry rocker chick music blaring loudly in the background.
Then suddenly I panicked and put out the fire. The charred heel of one white sock was all that remained.
The similarity of that incident to my kill-it-heal-it-want-it-lose-it-build-it-burn-it relationship with you was uncanny. And I don’t know whether to wash off the smell of smoke.