“I don’t know who you’re with these days, might be with someone new
And if you are, I hope he treats you like a lover ought to do.
But whoever makes you happy, it don’t really matter who
I’ve got a new lover now, I hope you’ve got a lover too.”
Your favorite songs fill my home as I try to make my lonely home sound more like your home that felt like my home, too. My friends tell me that I’m allowed to follow you through your online music collection, that that’s the problem they had when they broke up, too, that you’re a good person to follow for music, so I’m allowed to follow your music. I try to make my home sound like your home, so I can feel at home, and I wonder if you have a lover, and I imagine you wish a new lover upon me, but I can’t wish you have a lover, too.
“I hope you’ve got a lover, too,” the speaker repeats: it sounds like you’re singing directly to me.
It reminds me of the silly time I called you my lover because I didn’t yet have my license to use the word I wanted to use. We’d spent the last three months planning how we could open up our lives to spend time together, and we were just beginning to really date. I was exclusively with you; you were exclusively with me.
I had a group invitation to address; I didn’t know what to call you; I knew what I wasn’t allowed to call you. I said, “Hello friends and lover!” because you were indisputably my lover, and everyone laughed, some uncomfortably.
Fifteen months later, your younger brother asked you for a recommendation for a restaurant to celebrate his anniversary. When I asked you if we had an anniversary, you said, “I remember a particular occasion, being called ‘lover,’ so I know that the date is past July.” You were my lover then, but you weren’t just my lover then to me.
I don’t want another lover.