There are correlations

between how far you have fallen in love
and how many cars will try to hit her

between the frequency with which you check your phone
and the number of bears in the woods where she walks her dog

between how primal is your lovemaking
and how steadfast are her stalkers

between the clarity of her face on your closed eyes
and the likelihood her basement wiring is faulty

So when our passion faded
it was replaced with the relief
that you
would be
finally
safe

But still today
there are moments
that clutch me by the heart
when I fear just a little for your life

The mutual break up after a long relationship is a strange beast. One of you has the burden of raising the topic, of ripping away that moldy old bandaid, and the other one knows immediately, almost as the first words are out of their partner's mouth, that This Is It, this is The Discussion. It is a relief, really. It is For The Best, really. And it is, it truly is.

But the brain, now left free from having to spend effort on how to end the relationship, will begin its post-relationship analysis, including hourly emotional updates. If you are the band-aid ripper, you will wonder why she went along with it so willingly. You will wonder why she didn't cry, or if she did, you will wonder if it was authentic. If your band-aid was ripped, you will wonder why she chose that particular moment to bring it up. Fatigue? Could she simply no longer bear living the lie? Or did she want to troll that upcoming wedding with all the hooks, lines, and sinkers of the newly-single?

Your mind will agitate between reasons you liked her and reasons you knew it couldn't work. During the break up, you could list all the latter, but now your mind is full of the former. You see her face again for the first time. Her voice is in your ear again like a tongue. You wish you could have stored up extra sex on those days you took a pass so that you could cash it in slowly, luxuriously, over the upcoming dry time. You romanticize the future you have lost.

Worse, your mind, not enjoying this, sets out to teach you not to repeat this experience. You are treated to images of her laughing about you with her friends. Talking you down to her new guy.
Even in a mutual break up, this is hard. It can make you doubt yourself. Doubt the world. Doubt love. But in time, the truth comes clear: she is a wonderful person, who you were lucky to have known so well. You keep her in your mind and would jump at the chance to introduce her to someone who could bring her the happiness you couldn't. You remember what drew you to her with nostalgia, and what drove you apart with humour and compassion. You hope she feels the same way.

And then you make a list of all the shit you left at her place.

Four men, four countries.

We agree on English, so that we will all know a few words, how to apologize. We speak slowly, pause often, move our hands, look at each other, smile.

Danish gurgles a little laugh at our efforts. It sounds as though his real name is devoid of vowels, and none of us were able to pronounce it
to his satisfaction, so we simply call him Danish. His eyes are half closed, and he has lit a stick of incense, as though anyone in this
sleepy hostel would care about the smell of what we are smoking.

Rinaldo is doing all the talking. His English has improved with each circuit of the thick joint, and sometimes he speaks too quickly for
Yurichiro, the compact Japanese with a walkman on a chain. "Too small. Not in US. Stolen this." After some debate, we determine that he's worried of HAVING it stolen, and he bought it legitimately in Hong Kong.

"If you go down, very down in you," Rinaldo says, pushing his palm from his throat down towards his stomach as he lies stretched out on the floor, "man wants woman for sex, and children, and house, only."

Danish nods. Yurichiro is concentrating intently on Rinaldo's words. Every person is a new English teacher. He has never tried marijuana before.

"And if a woman looks also down deep, but no listen to... lesbos?" they look to me: Rinaldo for confirmation, the rest for translation.

"Lesbians," I say, nodding at Rinaldo. I will not try to stop his argument. I am an impartial messenger for the language, and will debate the idea separately. "A woman who likes women," I explain to the other two. Danish says, "Ah," and Yurichiro stares at me blankly.

Rinaldo makes a peace sign with the fingers of his right hand and looks at Yurichiro. "Woman," he says, and Yurichiro nods, "who do like this," and he slaps his tongue into the crotch of his fingers, and slops it all over the sides of the V. Danish howls and slaps Yurichiro on the knee,
knocking himself backwards in the process. The Japanese blushes, "Hai," he says with a smile.

"So," Rinaldo continues, "if woman no listen to LEZ-BEE-INS," he sing-songs at me, "she know she wants man to own her and to protect her. She wants to protect children also. So, man and woman have separate jobs," Rinaldo finishes.

The other two nod. Yurichiro doesn't seem to understand why this is an interesting subject.

"What about if a man wants to take care of the children instead?" I ask.

Rinaldo pauses. "I think," he begins, "I respect his... decision?" he looks at me and I nod. "To become a woman," he concludes.