The Editor's Ex
By Caitlin Doyle
Because you’re gone, I take a book to bed:
The Flame of Passion. Scabbard at his thigh,
Lord Henry gets the girl. You’d only buy
top Booklist picks. “The romance genre’s dead,”
you’d say when promises of I-thee-wed
lured me to bargain bins. I learned to lie
about my day, hoard Harlequins on the sly
while you were off at work, your office spread
with red-inked proofs. But now it makes me yawn
to read beyond the lovers’ wedding night.
I close The Flame, not even halfway through.
His sword grows dull while she goes on and on
about how lovers must stay true. I’d write
another ending, if I could, for you.
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