when love leaves, something is left. something hollowed out with no clear edges - just spindly borders and a squint-eyed opaqueness. not a body, really - there's nothing inside where the bones and the guts used to be. nothing to touch. the place where love used to go - that it used to fit inside - is swollen at the sides and profoundly empty. porous. like a ghost, maybe. when i look now, i still remember. not with tenderness. not with anger, either. what i remember is the precariousness; the parlous inevitability - like us picking out a couch when everything was falling the fuck apart anyway. i don't remember when the love occupied space. i remember nothing carnal; nothing holding mass; nothing fleshy or alive. even the eyes are foreign to me - his, and mine; though sometimes, usually in the middle of the night, i remember the shape of our bodies in bed, drawn together like worn-out waves. i'm no longer sad it couldn’t happen. i'm happy we once believed it could. there is forgiveness in accepting our humanity. because we tried. when time and space and soil begin to swallow me entirely, what else will there be to do? i will commend us for loving. i will commend us for healing. i will commend us for forgetting, too. i will thank him. i will thank us. i will thank it. i will leave a door cracked so the ghost can find someplace else to live. to float. to haunt. it will matter less that it’s gone, and more that it ever was at all.