https://www.facebook.com/156722280860187/

The Love I Lost, New York, NY (2026)

06/15/2026

The heart above the rain is glowing

and nobody asked it to stop.
It just stays there, lit from inside,

while the rain comes straight down

and hits the water below

and the water takes it without complaint.
People have been telling me to move on

since before I knew what moving on meant.

They set the clock themselves.

I never agreed to that clock.
The rain does not have a deadline.

The light in that heart does not dim on schedule.

This is what they do not understand —

the love and the grief are the same current.
You cannot turn off one

without losing the other.

I will not choose.

I have never been willing to choose.
No timeline.
The heart glows on the surface of the water

where the rain is breaking it into pieces

and it reforms, and breaks again,

and the light holds through all of it.

I watch the reflection.

I do not look away.
— The Love I Lost

06/14/2026

Two white butterflies on the same bare branch —

and one of them is you, and one of them is me.
I know that is not how it works.

I know a branch is a branch.

But they are resting side by side

the way we used to, without needing to explain it.
The dark behind them is not night exactly.

It is more like the specific blue

of three in the morning

when something is over but not yet named.
Both wings are closed.

Both are very still.

This is what people do not say about grief —

sometimes it looks identical to peace from the outside.
The love is not the dark behind them.

The love is the branch —

the one thing both of them are standing on

without thinking about it.
Same branch.
If one of them leaves, the branch remains.

The other one remains.

The dark remains the same dark.

I have been looking at this image for a long time

trying to decide which one already flew

and which one is still deciding.
— The Love I Lost

06/14/2026

I am holding the dandelion

and I cannot make myself blow.
The seeds are already leaving.

I did not ask them to.

The cardinal up there does not notice —

it is busy being red against all that pale sky.
You used to say make a wish.

I would close my eyes and wish

for something small and ordinary,

the way people do when they are not yet afraid of losing things.
Now I hold the stem and feel

the particular give of it — light, hollow, certain.

The seeds drift in a direction

I have not learned the name of yet.
The love does not drift.

That is the difference.

Everything else in this image is moving

and the love is the only thing that stays.
Still holding.
The last few seeds cling to the center.

I keep meaning to let them go.

The cardinal has already crossed the frame

and I am still standing here

with a stem that once held everything

and now holds almost nothing.
— The Love I Lost

06/14/2026

Dad, the cardinal just flew over the water

and I thought: he sent that.
I know that is not how it works.

I know birds do not carry messages.

I know the fog on this lake

is just weather, not a sign.
But I sat down here anyway,

on this cold bank where the grass runs out,

and I let the mist settle on my shoulders

the way your hand used to when I was small.
The whole lake is white with it.

I cannot see the other side.

That is the part I am getting used to —

not seeing the other side of things.
The love is not lost in that fog.

It is sitting here, on the bank, with me,

heavier than I expected love

without a person to be weightless.
The cardinal banked left and was gone.
I watched the place where it had been

until the mist moved through it

and made it part of everything else.

I am still watching that same piece of air.

I do not know when I will stop.
— The Love I Lost

06/14/2026

The daisies are still blooming

and I have no idea how to forgive them for that.
The trees on both sides have given up their leaves.

Everything in between is fog.

He is standing there with his back to me —

no, I am standing there. I forget sometimes.
The bird on the heart above this field

does not sing. It only sits.

The white flowers open anyway,

cold and small and exact as you were.
This is what people do not know:

I walk into the fog some mornings

because the fog does not ask me

how I am doing.
The love did not go into the fog.

It stayed on this side,

rooted like a daisy in frozen ground —

stubborn, particular, unnamed.
I stood between those two bare trees

until I lost the feeling in my hands.
The heart floated somewhere above me.

The bird on top of it was quiet.

I walked back.

I did not know why I walked back.
— The Love I Lost

06/14/2026

The cardinal landed on my shoulder

and I did not move for a long time.
The window was already open.

The sunset was doing what sunsets do —

turning the rooftops the color of something

I do not have a word for anymore.
I used to call it beautiful.

Now I just stand here

and watch it happen to the sky

the way I watch most things: from a distance, still.
The bird weighs almost nothing.

I feel every gram of it.

That is the difference you made —

you taught me how to notice the small weight of things.
The love is not behind me now.

It is perched exactly here, on this shoulder,

warm and particular,

a color I have not seen on anything else.
I keep watching the road below the houses.

I do not tell myself why.
The sun drops below the line of rooftops.

The cardinal stays.

The curtain moves a little in the air.

I do not close the window.
— The Love I Lost

06/14/2026

The butterfly is still there, wings flat against the water,

and I cannot stop looking at it.
The rain comes down in needles

and the ripples keep spreading outward

from where it landed —

or fell — I cannot tell which.
You used to say rain smelled like beginnings.

I smell it now and think: ending.

I think: the specific weight of wings

that cannot lift in weather like this.
Nobody told me love would do this —

stay grounded in the middle of the storm,

not gone, not flying,

just waiting without knowing it is waiting.
The love did not leave with you.

That is the part that surprises me still.

It is here the way water holds

a shape it did not choose.
Still.
The ripples reach the edge of the image

and I wonder where they go.

You would know a thing like that.

You always knew what happened after.
— The Love I Lost

06/14/2026

A blue rose glowing in total darkness —

a color roses do not come in naturally, which makes it the most accurate flower for this.
What we had was not the ordinary kind.

I knew that when we were in it. I know it more completely now that it is over.
You would wrap your arms around me from behind sometimes,

just briefly, just enough — and the whole nervous system would recalibrate to safe.
I did not know how much of my sense of safety

was stored in the specific temperature and pressure of your arms until they were gone.
The blue rose glows without a source.

It does not need external light. It carries its own, which was also true of you.
The room you entered changed. Not dramatically. Measurably.

Something in the air adjusted when you were in it and I adjusted with it.
The love I have for you, husband, is the blue of this rose —

the color that does not occur in nature, that someone had to make entirely new.
Not a category that already existed.

Something invented by the specific combination of you and me and the years.
It is not that I have not been held since.

The dark in this image is genuine. The blue is genuine. Both can be true.
It is that the arms that knew exactly the right pressure

were attached to a specific person and that person is you and you are not here.
Not here.
The blue rose holds its impossible color in the dark.

It glows without explanation, without source, without asking the dark to understand.

I wish you were here. I have not stopped wishing. I do not expect to.
— The Love I Lost

06/13/2026

A white butterfly on a flower that has already given its best color —

the petals fading at the edges, the whole head heavy, the butterfly resting on what remains.
Something good happened yesterday.

My first instinct was you. My second instinct was the same.
The lake behind the flower is the color of early morning when nothing is decided —

lavender, silver, the light spread flat and even across the whole surface.
A good thing happened. And then a bad thing.

And I missed you in both, but the missing in the bad thing had a different weight.
Good news travels lighter through the body.

It arrives and the love flares — toward you, as always, first — and then comes back.
Bad news sits. It takes the chair.

It stays until it is satisfied that I have understood the full measure of what I lack.
The love does not distinguish between the occasions.

Both arrive and both find it already turned in your direction.
The white butterfly on the fading flower —

it does not require the bloom to be at its peak to find the landing worthwhile.
It rests where it rests. It does not judge the condition of what holds it.

Neither does the love. It lands on whatever day this is and stays.
It is not that the good days are less good.

The lake is genuinely that color. The morning light is genuinely that soft.
It is that every day — good, bad, between —

arrives with a vacancy at its center shaped exactly like the space you occupied.
Every day.
The butterfly rests on the fading flower by the lavender lake.

The morning holds its soft undecided color across the whole surface.

Something good happened. I turned to tell you. I am still turned that direction.
— The Love I Lost

06/13/2026

She sits on the edge of the bed with her head in her hand

and the window behind her holds its rectangle of blue-white light through sheer curtains.
The light does not reach her.

It falls on the floor beside her and stops, the way certain comforts stop just short.
I know what she knows that no one else at the table knows —

the specific weight of the word buried when it applies to your own child.
They told me bearing was the greater pain.

They were working from a different scale. They had not yet been handed this particular measure.
The curtain moves slightly in the light from the window.

She does not move. She has been in this position since before I arrived.
There is a kind of grief that reorganizes the body's relationship to vertical —

that makes the floor seem like the more honest position, the bed the compromise.
The love she carried for that child

is not the same category as any love that existed before it.
It went in a direction no other love goes —

forward into the future, specific, planning, already knowing the shape of what it wanted for him.
Now it goes nowhere. It has a direction and no road.

It is the most precise navigation system pointed at a destination that does not exist.
It is not that she cannot go on.

The curtain moves. The light continues through the window without asking permission.
It is that going on requires carrying this particular love

in a body that was built to carry it forward, not to carry it without destination.
No road.
The window holds its light behind the curtain.

She sits with her head in her hand in the blue-dark room.

The love she has for him is going in the direction of him, still, always.
— The Love I Lost

The Love I Lost

06/15/2026

06/14/2026

06/14/2026

06/14/2026

06/14/2026

06/14/2026

06/14/2026

06/14/2026

06/13/2026

06/13/2026

Address

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share

Category