Maybe

We said goodbye next to an open car door in the rain. The small Mexican woman taking a smoke break on the sidewalk next to us smiled. That old 4 Non-Blondes song came on the radio as you leaned in to kiss me and you laughed. I said, "it's like we are saying goodbye in 1995 or something".

As I'm writing all of this down, a girl who looks like you walks past the window of the restaurant I'm sitting in. She reminds me that that goodbye was the last time we spoke.

I instantly wonder how you are, where you are...if you're even alive. Maybe you cut your hair and changed your name and I see you everyday but I just don't realize it. Maybe that's what happens after we die. Perhaps my Grandfather is now that kid down at the corner store who always tried to short change us or maybe your Mom is the waitress who just brought me a refill. Maybe she'll lean over and say to me, "don't worry, Mary is fine. She's now an 8 year old with an above average reading comprehension who loves horses living in Montana". Maybe the switch is made when we've lost all hope, those moments when we die on the inside, just a little, that's when someone new takes over. Maybe that's just what happened to you. You aren't really dead, just that part of you that I said goodbye to on that rainy day in front of your beat-up Skylark.