Three years of correspondence I retained
of traded histories and promised sex,
that crashed in realization. I disdained
continuation, but among the wrecks
of revelation I preserved a pile
of printouts that might generate a work
of future fiction. Tucked into a file,
I kept the tracks of Fluffy and the jerk.

Last week I dumped them in the box to shred.
But second-thinking, first I skimmed them all.
Confronting memories of me, instead
of foolishness, I saved some, to recall
true bits misplaced. I googled then, and sighed,
discovering five years ago, he died.