I count the days she’s been gone. I count them until it becomes painful to know there was an actual number pushed between us—a number that only grew. Would only grow. Days, then months, then years. They tell you it gets better but it doesn’t. I make a list of things I want to forget because it hurts to hold them in the forefront of my mind.

That one time she cussed out my brother when he told me to get a real job.

That one time we were playing a show and I saw her in the crowd with her eyes closed and her hands raised like she was worshipping.

That one time she was so angry with me she threw a loaf of bread at my head and told me to choke on it.

That one time she licked the tears off my face and said she was craving something salty.

That one time I felt sorry for myself and told her I was a lousy artist and she told me to write a song about it.

That one time she filled the vodka bottle with vinegar and when I started coughing and choking she told me I needed to stop drinking so fucking much.

That one time she convinced me to let her wax my balls and told me it wouldn’t hurt at all.

That one time she drew boobs on my face with a Sharpie while I was sleeping and then I had to play a show later that night.

That one time she sang to me when I wouldn’t sing anymore and it was so bad and so good at the same time.

That one time we got married.

That one time she left.

When does it get better? Can someone give me a time frame?

If someone doesn’t want you, the only self-respecting thing to do is to let them go. Truth, honest to God, I’m not lying to you. It’s that or a restraining order. I’ve seen those guys who wouldn’t let go. Their girls would peace out and they’d lose their shit. Man, those fuckers reminded me of beggars; stooped shoulders, watery eyes like they’d just hit a joint. How do you let yourself get to that point, man? That’s pathetic. What bothered me most about those guys was the type of girls they were grieving. Shallow girls, cover girls, too much lipstick—girls, none of them even a little bit like Yara. I judged those guys so hard and I guess I shouldn’t have. We all have someone to grieve even if it’s not Yara.

I made a new list of things I wanted to forget.

The way she cooked my meals when I was a zombie and carried them over to me, placed the fork between my fingers, and told me in her gentle voice to eat.

Her cold fingers when they smoothed the lines on my face.

How she never complained about the months when I disappeared, she never brought them up after.

The way she’d lash out at me, accusing me of cheating on her.

Those girls, the ones who were not Yara, their speech was fickle, their voices high and twangy. They never asked a real question, just hinted around it. They sounded cheap, like those plastic recorders they teach you to play in middle school. I’d had those girls, I’d listened to them speak, and say my name, and ask me non-questions. Yara’s voice was deep…elegant. Her accent was regal and her tone matter-of-fact. I added something I wanted to forget to the list of Yara’s questions.

Why fuck a girl and lead her on if you have no intention of being in a relationship with her?

Why are you whining that you can’t write a song when you haven’t tried to write a song?

Why do you let your brother speak to you like that?

Why do you want to marry me anyway?

After a relationship ended and you went through the initial grief, it was time for the groveling (or bargaining as the shrinks called it). Groveling was a rite of passage. It’s where you got to look so pathetic no one would want you anyway, but you were sad enough to try. I didn’t know where she was to grovel or I would have. Fuck, I would have gone the whole nine yards with the groveling, been a beggar. I skipped that stage and went straight to the asshole stage. That’s the best one. You get to drink a shitload—and you don’t even care what you’re drinking. There’s a lot of “Fuck that bitch.” And, “I’m better off without her.” When you get tired of the hangovers and your dick won’t get hard anymore, you stop drinking and you medicate with fun new things: friends, the gym, brown rice and chicken breasts perfectly portioned, and random hookups with girls you meet at the gym.

Grief without the fights, grief without the apology, grief without the closure. Thick, suffocating grief wound tightly around one woman. And with as much pent-up grief as you have for one woman, you’re sticking your dick in another one. It’s sick.

Pride, I had too much of it. If I really wanted to I could have fucking found her. I know that now. I should have begged and groveled, crawled to her on my hands and knees so she could see the effect she had on me. Maybe I could have brought her back.

The pen was there that day, lying on my nightstand. I didn’t recognize it, where had it come from? It was a tourist’s pen, something you’d buy at the Market: a skyline of Seattle behind a tiny plastic dome. There were flecks of glitter in water. I picked it up, watched it snow over Seattle. And then, just like that, the words fell into my head.

Are you going to write a song about it?

Why yes, yes I was. I called the song “Beggar.” It was the second song I’d written about Yara and it took twenty minutes to get it out. It had her rhythm: soft, soft, hard, hard. When I was done I felt…less. Just less, like I’d transferred some of my grief into a composition book instead of letting it sit in my chest. This was what Yara had told me would happen if my heart broke. I hated the song because of that—I hated every song about her, and they all were about her. I hated the girl that made us famous. I hated myself for loving the girl that made me a beggar. Bitter, bitter—like orange rinds. She’d done this to me purposefully, hurt me with intent. I changed for her, but she hadn’t changed for me. That was the difference. She’d just left me behind.

I checked my trash for her e-mail.