It is a difficult thing when the writers stop writing; when the brazen stop traveling to parts unknown, and all of a sudden we don't know where to find them. We don't know where we'll find them again.
It is a difficult thing when the people who exist alongside you in the same office or town or city or even planet suddenly stop being. Because how does it make sense that you are still you when they are no longer them. It is an oily black Seuss riddle, slick. Sick.
Sometimes there is only this: an iced coffee made perfectly with a generous tip for the barista; a joke that is old but still makes you belly laugh the exact same way; an old friend who is in the third row watching your favorite singer in the whole fucking world and she video chats you for one song because she knows. She remembers how much that music moves you.
Sometimes there is only knowing that in an office across town there is a woman who loves you; there is a dog who doesn't understand that you're coming back but she's doing her best.
There is your roommate's laughter even though said dog just shit in his closet a few hours ago. His forgiveness, the strength in that.
Tiny treasures on a long, cold stretch of beach. But still we collect them, put them into jars on the bathroom sink and consider them when we're brushing our teeth. Sometimes, if we are very lucky, it is enough.
