Yesterday the woman living in the apartment above me fell through the floor,
the wood soft and ragged where she’d apparently made love 254 times
to her ex-boyfriend, according to her daily journal entry.
The police couldn’t find a trace of her no matter how hard they looked;
not even a jawbone remained.
And it was then that I realized human beings are approximately 75% water,
but the human heart is not, and never will be, soluble
in most solutions. And love, love is like filing a missing person’s report:
you’ll never know how much the other half meant to you
until it’s gone.