an orange sunset

Where does love go when its lost?  Does it float around in vast space or dissipate into thin air?  The hollow hearts longing.  Re-filled but still partially empty.  Always.  A different kind of fill.  Each love is a different jig-sawed puzzle piece.  Different from the rest.  Different, yes again.  Lots of pieces, none the same.  Each perfectly designed for that space.  Space and time.  Time does not mean space, space does not mean time.  Flashbacks sharp as lightning.  Daydreams beautifully blurry.  A bare room, a top sheet, an orange sunset.