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Ileana Amara May 2020
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.
A burnt out bulb,
just hanging there.
No more light to share,
or shadows to shear.
No phoenix moment,
Totally spent.

— The End —