ce dont nous parlons lorsque nous parlons de l’amour

by sophie

our friend died and they buried her in a light blue coffin and everywhere she’d ever lived on the internet simply became still. you can’t die on the internet, you just simply say no more. but there was so much already said, years of songs and pictures and poems and tweets and blogs. her name was becca and some people never knew her, just like everyone, and i keep finding her, over and over again, on new sites, in new posts, in new mutual friends i didn’t know we’d shared. i fall across words or pictures she “Liked,” in the Facebook sense of the word.  she died a year and a half ago, and tonight somehow, through the threads of friends and names, fell across her Instagram account. i can go back, if i want, to when we were in college, to read the letters she sent to me — a girl she only knew on the internet. but tonight i looked at her pictures on Instagram, and read the tweets she’d “favorited.” I didn’t expect how many would be my own. she had “favorited” some of her own tweets: 


just in case, becca, you suspected for an instant that you’d stopped existing, i have to tell you, your beloved internet deems it that some piece of you stay here, like the ripple from a stone fallen into water which does not fall swallowed back by the surface but stays fixed in its unfinished motion. warm to the touch. the spirit represented still beats, through all the wires, through all the songs. it is summer in boston. i hope there are flowers on your grave.