Until It Runs From the Base

Once or twice a week, you said. Soak the soil, slowly, until the water flows from the base.

In a story I read once, a woman listed the things she learned from her ex-boyfriend. The way he taught her to use cheese knives; to properly chain a bicycle; to use LinkedIn. We never really let go of anyone we loved.

We just carry it differently.

When you and I were together, we carried our love by texting each other goodnight; by locking the door of the bathroom at the club; by stealing chalices from bars because they made us feel like royalty, and we wanted to recreate that feeling at home in comfy socks and sweats.

I carry my love differently now. I carry it when I water my plant, only once or twice a week. The way you did. I carry it when I smoke one puff of a cigarette, then tap it out and whisper, I love you cigarette. The way you did. I carry it by talking to the pigeons, because you said they were underappreciated. I tell people that pigeons mate for life. The way you did.

I wonder how you carry your love for me. I wonder if you carry it by wandering around Barnes & Noble, touching as many spines as you can, feeling the energy of the stories inside. The way I did. I wonder if you carry it by ordering sausage, eggs, and hash browns at the deli. The way I did. I wonder, or try not to wonder, if you carry it by kissing him with your eyes open, just sometimes, to see the face of the person you love up close, wishing the moment could last forever.

Knowing it wouldn’t.

The way I did.

I water my plant again. It’s only been a day. The soil can’t take any more, and the water runs straight through.