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Your lover has left you.

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It’s hard for you to admit that. How could she be gone? She still whispers in your guitar’s chords. When there’s a storm, she’s the lightning’s brilliance before it dances with the trees.

Her life is woven into your karate gi. You met through the sport, and she wore the gi countless times. The day after she leaves, you wash it over and over. As it hangs on the line, it drips slow, bitter tears.

Your lover used to be the lines left on your face post-lab goggles, too. The marks are dull now, and you take it as a sign. She can now pass into that space in your mind, reserved for deceased family members. People you think of, but don’t obsess over. Yet you want to hold her just a bit longer.

She left home while you were away. You’re not sure how it happened; they’re still figuring it out. All you know is, your world was reduced to ten digits. 11/03/12, at 11:57 PM. Three minutes before her birthday.

One hundred eighty seconds is enough time to make the wish, and blow out the candles, and cut the cake. It’s so simple.

That’s what should happen; she should come home soon. You wait for her as her father does the honors. Stolen from the birthday girl, you get the first piece. You hate to admit it, but it’s the best cake you’ve ever had.

You keep looking for her in her own house, letting the party around you fade. But she’s elusive. Perhaps it’s because she lives here; since everything is hers, memory’s grip on each object is weaker. Is the chase worth the effort anymore? You’d rather her stay in your gi and guitar.

So you mingle and eat more cake. Your body’s more receptive to chocolate than love. You like it that way.

The party ends, and you go back home. You’ve forgotten the last thing she said to you. The sun rises, and you go to school. Karate practice is still your outlet. You hang out with old friends. Life goes on, and by now, it’s safe to say it.

Your lover is dead.



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