Black Box
Poem
Black Box There arrives the day when you understand that some of the people you loved didn't love you back—their love was transactional and you've become debit—so you walk around the urban lake where dozens of wrecked planes are strewn across the water's floor. Passenger planes, war planes, cargo planes— some of the wrecks are remembered and still contain ghosts. But almost all the other wrecks are forgotten and their ghosts have long since gone because ghosts are only ghosts when they're still recalled by the living. As for you? You will continue to walk around this lake and maybe, eventually, you'll forget those people who left you. Or maybe you won't.
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Unconditional love is the only true love. Everything else is transactional. Great poem.
Magic, after all, is a ghost.