This Will Never Be Sent
I’ll write this poem and then maybe
I’ll burn it,
because the words will turn me to ash if I don’t.
What a nice thought; release.
But I won’t burn it.
I’d rather keep holding on to fire with my bare hands
than conquer letting go.
I don’t remember what it felt like
to not know you.
What if I never felt anything at all?
Did I even look at the sky?
I certainly never knew about
the entire galaxy inside my chest.
An endless, expansive, star-filled space
that somehow reverberates
I can laugh now about all that time
I told myself that I didn’t love you.
I could just go anywhere,
the middle of nowhere,
and still be happy if you
were there too.
I’m sorry, I always go on too long.
Let me cut to the chase.
Here’s all the things that make me think of you:
All of the stars,
and the moon,
and their moons too.
standing in the desert,
every shade of purple,
reading a good book,
drinking hot tea,
making someone smile
(It doesn’t have to be you),
looking at my phone,
the scent of tobacco and vanilla,
rooftops and porches and bonfires
anything that holds even the tiniest hint
or possibility of magic.
What I’m trying to say is that
I had learned about every bad thing
the world had to offer.
But I need you to know,
even though it hurts,
teaches me about the good parts.
One last thing before I close.
I used to know only how to see tomorrow.
And when I met you,
I understood forever.
That’s not me saying I’ll find you in the afterlife
(though maybe I will).
What I mean is that I love you
in the same way that stardust created the universe.
In the way that matter is never
destroyed, only transformed.
5,000 years after neither of us exist,
my love for you will remain
in whatever energy is still around.
even if it’s just
particles in space.
Alanna Grace is a writer living in Philadelphia. She graduated from Temple University with a degree in Film and Media Arts.