Dear . . .,
You have begun to annoy me. You are everywhere. You are indiscriminate. You allow yourself to be used too much and too often.
. . ., when we started this journey I loved your coyness, your knowingness, your wink-nudge-titter as much as I loved your cluelessness, your endless shrug, those tiny spaces of possibility and silence. You were mysterious and knowing, delicate without being fragile.
I adored each of your dot-space-dot-space-dot.
I don’t know that I will ever feel the same way again. I had warned you that , would always be my first love, that seductive bit of hesitation, the never-ending foreplay. You, . . ., smile too much and too often, even without occasion, and I have seen you give yourself to apprentice writers, court naïve editors, woo unsuspecting readers.
I’m sorry, . . ., I cannot, any longer.