afterlife

When love is gone, where does it go? Does is go to the cobble-lit park on 8th Ave and Horario St, where, as we kissed, your hand moved from my stomach to my chest so slowly it felt like you had passed right through me? Would it sit on the bench in the park until we came back? Does it go to the Mahjong night I’m heading to, reincarnated into the body of another beautiful boy who will tell me I’m everything he would want if he wanted something right now? Does it go to some place in the future where I can wait for you there? Or, does it go exactly where you’re hoping? Nowhere. When you text me after I give you my number, you are silly and say it is Latrice from Craigslist’s, asking if I am still looking for a subletter. I can see that I already love you then, when I save your contact as Latrice. When you text me saying it’s over, I say, “Hey Latrice, are you sure? I can lower the rent to $1200.” If there’s an Afterlife for love, it looks like this. Like a hurried moodring post on my way to a moment that will eventually be lost in long list of moments I’ll never share with you. For my whole life, I’ll live in that Afterlife, wishing you were there, too. When love is gone, where do you go? Exactly where you want to be. And maybe, a few days from now, I’ll be happy about that for you.