What makes us
remove names from events,
to remember the after
and not the during,
to love a whole
but never the part.
ii.
It feels like this:
as your esophagus contracts
and expends, pushing with
desperation, when you rolled one
in too fast
the sharp pain that ripples
through, like
twisting.
iii.
Only then it's gone:
passed that only chance
lost that perfect day,
so I spill over
the balloon is full, but
my will is strong and
elastic too.
Labels: Poem