"How are you?" they ask, stroking your arm. They see

"How are you?" they ask, stroking your arm. 

They see the scars. They know why they're there. They don't like it any more than you do.

You shrug off the smiles and the questions. "I'm fine." A thousand other answers spring to your tongue, begging to leap out into the air. "I'm still hurting", "I need to know it's okay to cry", "I need to know why you say such cruel things about the man I love[d]", "I loved him once. And i still love him. And i will ALWAYS love him.", "What do you do, when you've found your happily ever after, but someone else slammed the door shut in your face?", but most pressing of all...

"Do you believe in life after love?" 

You stare into the mirror, when the guests have come and gone, the wine drunken, the bread broken. You stare at your eyes and your nose and your lips and remind yourself that someone once loved not just the body you wear, but also the mind and heart and spirit and soul inside. You stare at yourself and smile. You know the answer.

"There is no life after love. Love never leaves."