This list has been sitting in my drafts for a few months. Thank you @A and @sophia for the demand to publish.
  1. 2001: Long distance between New Haven, Connecticut & Maui, Hawaii. My first everything. 11 years older. Our high school photographer. You told me we'd get married, which was a joke until maybe it wasn't. You and your girlfriend took "a break" and you called my mom on Mother's Day, while I was in college, to thank her for having me. Summer love.
    You got engaged two weeks after I went back to school. My mom called to tell me so I wouldn't hear from someone else. Years later, in the middle of your wife's third pregnancy, you stood in a parking lot telling me you loved me over and over again. I have blocked you from communicating with me on every platform except LinkedIn, on which you frequently endorse me for various "skills".
  2. 2007: Rochester, Michigan. We were kind of like cosmic twins except I (hindsight 20/20) actually wanted to be you. I moved to Michigan to live with you, work with you, drive one car with you. A love with no oxygen. We broke up in the months after a so-called guru told you you weren't meant to be in relationship, it would always be a burden.
    You ended things three days before my mom was diagnosed with cancer. You never could have known. You're now married. We exchange occasional entertaining yet perfunctory texts.
  3. 2010: Maui, Hawaii. You wanted to write with me and have sex with me, and we wrote brilliantly together. I fell in love with your photography and your mystery, and you told me we were supposed to do some kind of amorphous spiritual work together but not be romantic partners. I tried to stop sleeping with you but couldn't. I was addicted to you.
    You started dating my friend the moment I moved to San Francisco. I broke up with both of you. You both continued to email me, pleading with me, telling me you missed me. I never wrote back.
  4. 2014: Between Los Angeles and San Francisco, California. We dated before and then I left and you apologized and wrote letters and so then long distance. You told me you loved me on the roof of The Standard, with tears streaming. I had loved you for three years—I was just waiting. Months later, you said there was a her, and that you wanted us both.
    I said no. You said you wanted what I wanted (marriage, kids) but in five years, with me. I said no. You became cold and ugly. Then, when you should have cried, there was nothing. I drove back to LA and smashed a dozen wine glasses, carefully wrapped in paper and plastic so they wouldn't make a mess, with a hammer.