The Last Time I Felt Everything

The last time I felt everything

it came in fragments—

like trying to remember a dream

after it’s already apologized

for waking you up.

It was her voice—

mid-laugh,

like joy forgot the world was burning.

It was the way she said my name

like she held it

in her breath

before exhaling me.

The last time I felt everything,

I wasn’t ready for it.

It was a Tuesday.

Love never chooses poetic days.

I remember blinking too long,

like I could close my eyes

on a moment

and keep it.

Like the world would wait for me

to memorize her.

Spoiler alert:

it didn’t.

We confuse “meant to be”

with “meant to last,”

like forever is the only kind of truth

worth writing poems about.

But some people are fireworks—

beautiful,

brief,

and loud enough to make your ribs remember

what heartbeats sound like.

I didn’t lose her.

I just kept loving her

after she left.

And that,

apparently,

counts as a tragedy

these days.

The last time I felt everything,

I didn’t bleed,

I bloomed.

And no one tells you

flowers ache too

when they open too fast.

But I let it happen.

Because numbness

isn’t peace.

And grief

is just proof

that I got to love loud

in a world

that begs us to whisper.