Less.

I still see him in strangers’ faces,



In every black sedan that passes me by,


windows up,


a ghost behind the wheel.

I see him in every corner

of the road to his old apartment

a place that isn’t mine anymore.

I see him in old pictures of myself
in the skin he used to touch,

the lips he used to kiss.

Now he's become a daily thought

a lurking shadow behind the trees,

dividing places into:

those we visited

and those we never got to.

Perhaps there’s no getting over this.

Perhaps love doesn’t move forward;

it just sits heavy on the chest—


like an anchor with no rope.

Perhaps there’s no love after this,

or at least none like ours.

No more sweet or sour,

just stale.

Perhaps,

after this,


there will be no "more,"

only less.