When I made love to you it was like poetry and that will kill her. She will never write for you like I did. Her words will never touch you like mine did. My words will keep caressing you at night and in your sleep you will recite them. She will hear you and try to be kinder, more interesting but she will never be like me. Her body will never excite you like mine did and neither will her mind. You will try and love her the best you can but in the back of your mind; you will be wishing you could say my name aloud one more time and instead of her I reply.