Then my head turns to the left
And I rediscover you.
What happens is I recede
From where I was into the place
Where it’s OK for me to think
Of the possibilities that were
Snuffed out somewhere up north
Of the city.

I imagine the scene. I imagine the car,
The seat belt, the struggle,
And your overpowering will,
Finally concentrated and distilled into
A moment of separation, the formation
Of crystal from fog, the bitter commitment,
And the balance going haywire, as you felt,
Certainty, or doubt, perhaps at once, or just
Curious, and eventually, realizing
Your feelings no longer matter,
You could calculate but not redeem them.
Your review would never make it out of the cracked window,
Like the sounds of your gasping.
You could admit you didn’t want to do it.
Or you could truly withhold that you did.

Who found you? Because, it was probably
The worst part of their day, having to choose
Between willfully ignoring the entire
Prospect of your intricate, desperate life, or
Filling your now-vacant vessel with a soul of their
Own derivation, one they would sew together from
Pieces of the people they worry about the most.
And they had to tell the next in line, and the next,
Knowing this exercise would play in every person,
Like a haunt memorizes your name —
Until word got to the person who would
Not exercise, but burst.

I come back. I notice breathing.
My chest in rhythmic rotation.
I am steeled in aloofness, invisible.
And also fine. All because on television,
A hug seemed extra tight, and that alone
Made me visit the space where you are,
Always, for some reason,
Just over there, to the left.