If there is no lexicon for loss, return
the empty language, return
hand clamped over yearning mouth, or air
bereft of sound. Perhaps this
is the algorithm you never learned: love
as stochastic process, as step after step
of bewildering and equally-likely
none of them easy; love as random walk
across the ravaged field of time.
To love someone is to walk
into fire for her, not knowing
whether you can live with the scars.
To pick up the phone at 3 a.m., not knowing
when you’ll put it down. To finish
what you have to say. To be wide awake,
unblinking, brave—even if it doesn’t last.
Read more from Issue No. 22 or share on Twitter.