ArtFlow

I kept your number
in case the person I became
needed to explain herself
to someone who knew her before.
The city didn't notice.
It just kept producing weather —
grey Tuesdays, sudden light,
the smell of rain on hot pavement
that always means something
and never means the same thing twice.
I threw out the box.
Not the memories -
just the box they were supposed to live in.
Turns out they don't need one.
They follow you to the grocery store,
sit across from you at dinner,
watch you fall in love again
with the quiet expression of someone
who has seen this movie
and knows better than to say so.
After is not an ending.
It's just the word we use
when we don't know yet
what kind of beginning this is.