Survival

In a zombie movie you panic
and clamor for paper. Blood(?) 
seeps through the door but 
you need to write a friend 
and just can't put it off. 
You fumble with the address 
(the seven is a two) and may not live
to find a stamp, but 
why else be alive now? 
Why else put your pen to paper 
in search of some words 
that you know will not do? 
Still, you scribble
I remember feeling ill 
with love 
for everything 
and you
then stare at the page 
while sunrays die into you 
like rain, for sometimes it's dusk 
when the world looks most rosy
with ideas and justice 
and you notice at last how
your forearm is gone, 
lopped off for a mile 
while you were still
in your head 
with a warm memory.

[Note: I am finishing editing this poem and posting it quickly to avoid self-censoring too much. This one is a little bit wacky, but I love movie tropes; I love writing letters; I love sunlight, and I love memories that make me pause for a minute. I think romanticization and dystopia go well together. Life can feel like that sometimes!]