All I ask is that you remember our beginning. Don’t remember the ending. Stories that don’t end in happily ever after are always better read on the first page.
I do not miss you in the loud, large world.
I miss you in the quiet corners of a room.
In the small details, the leaves that are
smattered with yellows and reds, the way a
man I pass on the sidewalk smiles, the outline
of your body on the right side of our bed.
Because even when love leaves, it doesn’t die.
It echoes in the caves of our hearts and tucks
itself in the spaces between our ribs.
Lost love does not leave us empty or hollow,
rather, it is much more like a dying sun,
struggling to shine, eating us alive from the inside out.
It still exists in our blood and breath.
Love is love is love, even when there’s nothing left.