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!]
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