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 May 2020
Ileana Amara
you write about the way it feels at the beginning,
like someone's airing up a balloon
inside your stomach
you write about urgency, that call across the wind
when you say his name
you become a scientist, a philosopher, an evangelist,
you theorize, you believe, you write:
"the universe recycles atoms and maybe yours and mine
were next to each other at the beginning",
maybe your collision was the Big Bang,
that kick started the entire universe,
maybe the stories are true
you write about the music
of suites and symphonies and operas
the notes that save your life
you write about when he looks at you,
it's the plucked strings of a guitar
the beating, resonant ***** in your chest.
you write about how you didn't want to fall
you didn't need anyone and you had plans
you were solid and unyielding and stable--
but he crashed into you..
and the world shifted under your feet,
you were Pangaea,
he separated you into continents,
you write about fear, and the warning signs
you chalk up to anxiety,
that inner sound bite you can't delete,
you dare to shout over it:
"I am -- brave."
"I am -- heartbroken."
here comes the letdown, the free-fall
of a thousand-foot cliff
all the way down, you write, philosophize, rationalize:
"The universe is moving toward entropy
so maybe we are an inevitable disorder,
meant to dissipate into nothing
"I do not/
am not matter."

Bang.

you smash into the ground,
you are blood and broken bones
heart in shreds, nothing catches you
you write: "If none of it was real.."
that dizzying drop, one second to the next
all in your head, you don't understand
and you'll try to figure it out, try to define
but it's all fragmented memories and crossed out lines
still, your hands will continue to type,
and through blurred eyes, you'll write.

IA
I dug upon my poetry journals and stumbled upon this one I wrote when I was fourteen.
 May 2020
Ileana Amara
"would the universe fight for our paradoxical hearts?"
You say our hearts could be bulletproof,
You say we're matches lit up, we'll never burn out,
You say we're an abstract art in a canvas painted through,
You say this forever journey of love is the best route,
Yet the paradox exists-- we can never be one.

I wrote about the freefall, your eyes, your smile--
the entirety of your beauty
Looking past but through your heart and soul,
Forging deep blue fear and rosewood love--
Love is a sweet poison until you realize formulating an antidote is difficult,
If the paradox of fear twins up with hatred, why do we love?

Two hearts beating,
with the effort of trying to be at the same rhythm,
Missing a whole note, taking a quarter rest
when the slicing pain of sweet poison takes on--
of fear, of misunderstanding, of jealousy, of the sad hypothetical truth that I may never be able to love,
And when the rhythm falls out of tune, the pianist stops playing.

It's a paradox of self-medicating oneself through love,
And yet fearing the downfalls, the heartbreak,
The absolute uncertainty that our hearts, might yet be penetrating bullets from the other
We're matches lit up, blown by the wind of cruel fate,
"we're all born to love, and cursed to feel", it whispered, burning out the flame between us,
We're an abstract art meant to be understood by the best of artists, even yet like Picasso
But we're only colors dripping out of a canvas, with shades of memories left behind,
It's a paradox I loved you when I don't even know what love is,
It's a paradox you were my universe, when it felt like a mesmerizing black hole--
exhibiting a gravitational acceleration that nothing, nor I would have wanted to escape it
It's a paradox we believed this was the best route,
When we've reached this tragic end, only to realize we're meant to come home to ourselves.

IA
I wrote this poem in the memory of my twin flame whom I loved for two years.

— The End —