When love dies, where does it go?

Is it the dust on the book we never finished reading?

Is it the star dust, the black matter which is invisible and may be no more than a brilliant possibility, yet moves and binds us all, from atoms to galaxies?

Is it the layer of fat enclosing our hearts and arteries, congealing and hardening a little more each time?

Or does it simply disappear, unremarked and unremarkable?

A figure half-glimpsed or imagined across the street, umbrella-shadowed, hurrying elsewhere?

A shard of memory at two in the morning.