this is how it starts

This is how it starts:

You leave.

You come home.

Someone says “it’s happening.”

You cry.

More than you wanted to.

Less than you thought you would. 

You leave again.

You smile and laugh.

You’re not quite sure if you exist. 

You cry. 

Only once.

More than you thought you would.

You’re back again.

Someone asks “are you there?”

No. Not really.

Are you?

Not sure. Am I?

am I?

This is how it ends:

You’re on a couch somewhere

You’re sitting down.

You pick up a book. 

You read a few pages.

You look up.

You see it’s raining.

You think about how beautiful the rain is.

You want to go back to that moment,

To hold it in your hand,

To open a shoebox hidden in your closet somewhere, look inside, and think:

Yes. 

That’s it. 

That’s beauty. 

That’s love.

What it really is, you’re not sure.

A leaf in a river.

A puddle on your way to class.

A thunder storm.

Something that makes you think.

You think.

You feel.

You remember what it feels like,

To think you exist:

The beginning,

The end,

The in-between.

This is how it goes:

You read a book. 

It makes you think:

Hemingway survived. 

You did too. Why?

And so it goes:

You start and you end.

You are, and then you are not. 

Or maybe, if I may be so bold,

You are and you are not.