The instant before the bombshell hits, that's when you see it.
                                                             ­                                 hear it.

So the moment before it drops on you, you know.
And then it hits, and...
Well.
You're gone.
Just. Like. That.


But sometimes, the bomb doesn't explode right at the moment it hits.
sometimes, you're in just the right place, and you live to see another day.


Still, you got some warning -- about half a second's worth.
(or if you blinked or you sneezed, then maybe
    all you got was a snap you didn't hear. maybe
    all you got was a last thought like every other
                                          thought you'd ever had,
the kind of suddenness that is sometimes a mercy.)


But what about the people
who saw the explosion in the distance,
watched it play on loop on TV?
But what about the people
who care, about you,
who find out after the bombshell has hit,
who feel their heart skip a beat in their chest
when their brain puts together the pieces?


And when it misses you --
when you get back up, somehow still relatively whole --
what is that going to do to the
people you care about, on the day that they stop.
being near-misses?


truth is:
you're not thinking about other people's calamities,
not the instant before it hits.


But I'm
              still
                       here. And I'm wondering
if there's a way: to pause them all,
every moment cascading before it fades away
in free  
           f
               a
                   l
                      l.

Because the hits. keep. coming.
and i'm here,
                        still.
but i can't keep on taking them like i'm used to.