Eternal Flame came on the radio
and my legs handed in their resignation.
London to LA
for pizza and a Bud,
lying on that off-pink carpet
in her cousin's living room,
holding hands through a romcom —
the main door lock clicked.
We jolted back into best friend-mode.
Hey Paul, how was work?
What's love got to do, got to do with it?
Tina was being tough. No.
I know now: she was grieving.
We played tennis until four in the morning
because we were not done,
and the sunrise was a good excuse.
Do you believe in life after love?
Cher was asking about survival. No.
She was asking about the other thing —
the specific loss
of being ruined by a song on the radio.
Strange, how it evaporates.
Not slowly. One morning.
The hormones file a memo: done here.
The body performs due diligence now.
It cross-references. It cools.
The knees remember their assignment.
Still — I chase it.
The somersault. The surge. The launch.
The absolute irrational certainty
before hello.
Love hasn't ruined me.
But sometimes I still wish it would.