Goodbye, or something

As I stood out back smoking, regretting almost anything and everything I'd ever done, watching crows steal bits of bread from one another as I spit bits of tobacco onto the black top, I thought of her kiss. Her skin against mine, the time she blew me in Martinez Canyon and the time I fucked her while ants crawled all over my legs. Every memory in one moment, all remembrances coalesced into a singularity of desire and longing. More than that, I recalled her emails and letters, her scrawl on paper left in books or with jars of jelly, the exchanges of gifts withstanding time and reason. We were destined to be together, after all, I thought, and it was our words bonded us, brilliance at the expense of the less bright; it was how we found each other.
I smoked and thought some more, my hand in my pocket attempting to soothe an urgent erection, memories continuing like a loop of psychic pornography. Pulling on my cigarette hard, I tried to put my desire to bed.
And then the 'ugh' came.
Something shifted as I stood out back. My intestines began to scream for release, a load on my rectum requesting for immediate attention. I made my way back inside and into the bathroom, scooping up a copy of the last edition to occupy my camp on the toilet. Some bug hadn't agreed with me, apparently,my shits liquid and my guts feleling like someone had dropped a big rock between my stomach and my ass. I knew I was in for a long session of expelling the bad stuff.
Unfortunately, in my haste I'd forgotten my reading glasses and, as I spread my legs wide on the edges of the big U to make a movement, anything beyond headlines looked like ancient runes. The more I sat, the more frustrated I got, putting down the paper and looking for any folder I could I find in my phone that would extract my interest away from the need to blast out the last of what had ailed me.
As I searched my phone for something remotely worthy of attention, someone suddenly buzzed, again and again, a number that I didn't recognize.
It was her.
Nine days, nine weeks, nothing had prepared me to hear her voice again. But there she was, grabbing a moment from a grocery store, telling me that her husband had once again found out about us, had read her emails... and she couldn't do this anymore.
Sitting, shitting, I'd heard this before. It wasn't the first time she's said she couldn't deal with our relationship and had to bail and so, it was something I took with a grain of salt.
Yes, yes, I said, knowing, nodding, squeezing the rest from my poop chute. The dozenth plus time she'd said she had said she was walking away and that was it, "I love you" but I have to move on and all that.
I hung up, wiped my ass and stumbled back to my computer.
And, as always, her words of separation stung like a knife in my heart, stripping all alloy from my steel and reducing me to pure iron, rusting, wind and rain ripping flakes away from me as I rotted where I stood.
Yet, despite my cynicism and jaded view of romanticism, I was not prepared to say goodbye.
Later, though text, she apologized and said she'd write later. Much later, I responded that, if I was going to die, I'd prefer it be at the hands of her husband.
I'd rather my end come with lead than iron.
If it comes to shitting or getting off the pot -- evidently, my life is all about the excrement.