I sent a package of love to a random address in Brooklyn.
It came back in the mail a few weeks later, plastered with a note that read, “Heavy Duty.”
When I opened it I found grief wrapped in styrofoam. I must have mixed the two when I packed it.
They look so identical now.
We learn about tax havens on the last day.
I space out. Realize that I have an inexplicable tendency to weave you into the tiniest nooks of life.
How large companies evade taxes by sending off their reserves to far lands with foreign tongues, minimal restrictions and volumes of secrecy.
I wonder. Does pain work that way?
Can I wrap each inch of my history like a mummy and send it to that same address in Brooklyn?
Will they sell it in a black market in exchange for narcotics to disguise their own?
Will they send it back?
This emptiness is starting to get dull. I flow restlessly in space. And wonder.
Will I be able to develop my own Dutch Sandwich in a kitchen where everybody resembles a taxman?
All I do is stare at my untouched dreams on the outskirts of Manhattan or brisk away from open arms that make promises in pairs of forevers.
But you taught me not to trust that.
Does love even look like you?