There will be a thousand lights hanging from the ceiling in a loft with hardwood floors. He’ll be standing in a corner, a half-swigged bottle of beer in his right hand. These details are too specific. Tell him to meet you in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. There will be a crowd of people. It’ll be too hard to move, much less think. Inches of space from one body to the next… It’s hard to articulate longing, even more difficult to articulate loss. You can see him slipping away, one crowd to the next. Suddenly, you’re alone and you’re thinking, “I love you. I love you. I love…” Like odd numbers are enough. Like language can encapsulate what it’s like to feel your soul drifting away. Up. Up. Up. A helium version of loss. Pop. But where will the pieces go? You studied the periodic table, calculated your mass and his. Together, it should be harder to dissociate. He talks about children, the ones he’d like to have with the woman he broke up with two years ago. Or three. You’ll look down at your limbs, trace the curve of your waist, follow it down to your hips. You’ll find nothing to keep him there. You’ll read Siddhartha into a machine. Click send. Like sentences composed by a man from the 1950s will be enough to make him stay. But it was never about him, was it? Not really. We can rewatch scenes from movies we swore we’d never play again. We’ll adjust the volume, take turns deciphering scenes. But what are we doing here really?